In the Gathering Dark
by Ione
Summary: Post-TLJ. In the aftermath, from the chaos and the carnage, rises a new vision for the galaxy. COMPLETE.
1. I

**I**

Kylo Ren has always known he is hollow.

From his earliest days he was a vessel for expectations, poured into him by his parents, his uncle, and finally, his master. Snoke. Who now lies dead, so much meat and gristle among burning remnants of blood-red grandeur. A twisted ruin propped up by hubris and an unflinching ability to wield power; twisting, snapping, and grinding less ruthless beings under his heel.

A demon who walked in nightmares, the bogeyman of a thousand systems, pitiful at his end. Outdone by hubris at last, his pride a more fatal injury than any Kylo dealt him, unable to see his death turning nearer, inch by inch.

There is no time for a state funeral, for battalions of stormtroopers in gleaming white, ranks of officers in coal black, and the praetorian guards are dead, redder by far than any blood that ever flowed through the wizened veins of their master.

No. Snoke is dead. Kylo ascends. Supreme Leader of all he surveys.

And he is hollow.

He knows this, has always known this. It used to trouble him, make him uneasy. Make him feel lesser; a pawn for better, stronger, more ruthless men. At the mercy of something enormous, overwhelming, a wave that crests and thunders and whelms, never ceasing or drawing back.

His trouble and unease has changed with his status. The entire galaxy lies before him, and he means to have it all. For now that there is no one left to fill him, he hungers.

Not for the past. The past is dead. He slaughtered it, cut it out, burned it root and stem. Ben Solo is gone, destroyed in a night of fear and rage, destroyed by Luke Skywalker just as surely as if his old master's lightsaber had sawn him in two.

The past is dead.

Kylo Ren—Supreme Leader Ren, Master of the First Order—now hungers for the infinite possibilities of the present.

Snoke taught him many lessons. He can see the clarity of them all, now that he has transcended that gray lump of bloated flesh. He is unabashed in his power; his wrath falls on people instead of things, twisting, snapping, grinding. Hux cannot heal his bruises before new ones sprout like night-blossoms on his face, his back, his knees.

Kylo likes to see them. He likes to smell fear, hear thunderous hearts beating a terrified chorus at his approach. They used to fear him because of Snoke. Because he was an instrument of something greater. Now, they fear him because he has finally become the monster the Force decreed. He is God and the devil, both.

It is not enough. Systems fall as the Resistance flees, and it is not enough. His ranks swell with new stormtroopers, his prisons fill with spiritless husks of once-free men and women, and it is not enough.

He hungers. Fear, obedience, capitulation. What does any of it mean? The galaxy is overflowing with nobodies, useless little creatures it is no triumph to make bend or bow. No matter how much he conquers, it fills only a tiny corner of the gaping void inside.

Kylo Ren rarely sits on his throne. _His_ throne, not Snoke's. It is an empty symbol of a creature that fell before him without a hand raised in his own defense. He does not, he will never appropriate that monument of failure for his own.

But Snoke chose that stone for a reason. Hard as durasteel, so dark that light cannot glaze its ebony surface, it is a perfect conductor and amplifier for the strength Kylo now wields with abandon. Wherever Snoke found that stone must have been a Dark temple of the highest order.

Kylo will not rule from it, but he will not refuse the power it offers.

Every day, alone, he sits. Closes his eyes. Reaches out. Hungers.

So long twisted inward, now he screams his lust to the stars, and the stars tremble.

 _Rey._


	2. II

**II**

He finds her in the spaces between her strengths.

Rey is not often weak. Alone for years on Jakku, she had been her own most precious resource. Once overextended or exhausted and she would have died, buried by careless dunes, bones wrapped in a shroud of shrunken, desiccated skin. She's seen so many corpses. The desert doesn't forgive.

But the life she leads now is—if possible—even harder than the sandswept, lonely, barren existence that made her childhood. After forty hours in the cockpit of an escort fighter, twenty hours retrofitting broken and rusted machinery, or three solid days painstakingly plotting a lightspeed route through a stellar nursery, she's boneless and falls into sleep without a thought of shielding her threadbare mind.

He finds her there. Overextended. Exhausted.

"How are you doing this?" It's the third time he's made his way into her unformed dreams, "Snoke's not helping you do it."

He looks at her as he always has…at least, as he has since the first time she'd seen him through their new, strange bond. The pleading vulnerability of their last meeting is gone, replaced with some violent stillness. His is immobile as a marble statue that stands in an overgrown plaza on some Core planet that doesn't care to remember the past. Not a muscle moves.

Except for his eyes. They glitter like beetle-backs in the Jakku sun.

He answers her. "This power was always mine. I couldn't see it, before. Destroying Han Solo didn't unleash it; I should have killed Snoke from the start."

"Yes," she can't summon any venom, and the ache of Han's death hits is a gut-punch, not a stab, "you should have."

"Come back to me."

"No."

"The Resistance will fall. You know this. At its last hour, who thought of you? Who came for you? The galaxy needs us, not them."

"Don't," she's so tired, so tired. She wants to scream at him, beat him out of her mind until her fists are bloody, but her head droops, a wilting bloom on a shriveled stem, "I'm not with you. I will never be with you."

"You will. I have seen it."

She doesn't answer. What visions the Force sends her now she does best to ignore.

"You've seen it too, haven't you?"

"No," her voice is raw, shredded. Wet with blood and tears. "I could _never_ —"

"You will," something builds in his voice, a depth that presses on her like rolling thunder. It rings in her bones. "You come to me, and we put an end to it. All of it. When the fires die, we build anew. Fresh life."

His eyes flicker downward, and it's all too clear what _life_ he means.

"No," she puts her hands to her ears, as though that could deafen his madness. Turns her back to him, as though that will blind her to the glittering, greedy intensity of his dark gaze.

She can break this bond. She can wake up. She _will._

"You won't," he's snarling in her ear—he's never been this close, she's never let him get this close—and his hands are bruising her arms and dragging her back. "You _can't_. You're strong, Rey, but no longer stronger than I am."

Rey struggles, darkness beating in her ears, a storm howling around her. She can't see him but he's everywhere and there's no exit, no sliver of light breaking through. Her heart beats crazily and for a terrifying, dizzying second she can't even—

 _Breathe. Just breathe._

There is always light in the darkness. Light, and balance. If you know how to reach for it.

Rey is calm. Every storm has an eye. She hides in it, wrapping herself in her own strength, in Luke's grace, in memories of Finn, Poe, Leia, Rose, any one of a hundred new friends that smile at her, welcome her, love her. Kylo can batter and rage, but her walls are strong. They keep him out.

Opening her eyes, she watches him rage. A statue no longer, he claws at her barrier like a rabid wolf, teeth bared and snarling. Trying to reach the light, though to consume it or snuff it out, she can't tell.

"You're so lonely," she says, tears stinging in her nose. His rage is indistinguishable from agony. "You don't have to be afraid to come back."

He is beyond replying.

Before Rey wakes, she takes pity. Opens the door; lets her light spill out.

"Come back, Ben."


	3. III

**III**

Mornings are hardest. There's never enough sleep to go around, or space even for the fifty Resistance members who call the _Falcon_ home. If they all lay down at once, the hall would be lined with bodies, each one tripping over the other's nightmares.

So some work, tinkering with the ship's system until she runs cleaner than she ever has. Others meet in the medical bay, planning their next move. Some make the constant lightspeed adjustments to throw the First Order off their trail.

The tiny mess on the _Falcon_ is crammed with crates of freeze-dried, ready-pack food, bartered quickly from the nearest outpost. It's nauseating, not worth lingering over; most people duck in, grab something—from spiced renna-hen to noodles in fermented bean sauce—and eat in corners with their friends. Very few actually bother to squeeze around the table in the mess, but Rey is one of them.

Finn laughs at Poe's joke, jostling Rey's arm so her tube of egg-paste nearly shoots up her nose. Rose giggles and then remembers she's sitting across from a hero of the Resistance. Her cheeks tremble with the effort of holding in her laughter as Rey scrapes gluey egg-paste out of her nostril.

"Go on, before you explode," Rey chuckles herself, wiping her dirty finger on Finn's jacket. He takes her glass of water and starts scrubbing off the stain.

"Hey!" he cries, and Rose stamps her feet and laughs until there are tears in her eyes and the table shakes too.

"All those grease spots and you're worried about some egg? It's not a collector's item, Finn," Poe grins.

Finn pouts. "I like this jacket."

Rey leans her head against his shoulder; his whole body relaxes. "Sorry."

He smiles down at her, then pulls a comical, repulsed face. "You've still got some up your nose."

"Kriff!" she mutters, scraping away again. Laughter bubbles up, ringing through the cloud of fear and exhaustion that fills the _Falcon_ like swamp-fog. That fog blocks everything out, blots friendly faces and hazes everything in a stifling shade of gray. With so much doubt, so much uncertainty, it's hard to cling to the moment, to the friends that remain.

Rey feels her heart swell. Despite everything she's lost, she has been so lucky. So many on the _Falcon_ have lost more family and friends in recent months than she has ever known. Rose still cries sometimes, holding her necklace in her hand like the crushed body of a songbird. Poe's grin, once so frequent, flashes like rare winter lightning, quick and fading before it warms.

Rey leans back against Finn. He's like her; even though their present is grim, it's still brighter than anything they've known before. His smile is still gentle and sweet.

"You okay?" he murmurs, into her hair. The hair that she's kept loose ever since—

No. Thoughts of the past summon _—no_. She needs to keep all that locked away until she physically can't. If he can catch her during her waking hours too, she'll go out of her mind.

"I think so. I heard we're landing today?"

"Yeah. I'm not even sure where. Leia's keeping things to herself, recently."

"Probably best," Rey doesn't want to know. Anything in her head isn't safe; she's pretty sure Ren hasn't taken anything from her that matters, but he's so determined, so powerful...she can't be sure. The less she knows about Leia's ultimate plans, the better.

"Mmm," Poe swallows the last of his fried toast, "speaking of Leia, she said she wants to speak to you."

Her heart stops. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Didn't say what about, but I can guess," his jaw clenches.

No one speaks. Then, timidly, Rose whispers:

"Um, what?"

"Her _son_ ," Poe spits, hiding his frown behind his mug, "The new Supreme Leader of the First Order. Who, if our intel is right, is more unhinged than usual."

"Oh," Rose swallows. "What—what did you think, Rey? You were with him, right? Not," there's panic in her voice, " _with_ him, I mean, but—"

She doesn't want to think about this, about _him_ , about any of it. And she certainly doesn't want to talk to Leia. He's prowling, he feels her thoughts drifting towards him; there's only ever a thin sheet of glass between them, fine as crystal, and if he gets too close he'll smash it and there will be nothing, no distance between them, no space to breathe—

"You don't need to tell us anything," Finn's warm hand anchors her to the moment, and drives cold, dark thoughts away. He squeezes; she returns the pressure until he winces. "But maybe, don't break my fingers?"

Rey laughs and there are a few tears behind the sound. "Sorry. I just," she meets Rose's eyes across the table, "really don't want to think about him right now."

"No, yeah, don't," her words tumble over themselves in her effort to agree. "But...what are you going to tell General Leia?"

"I have no idea."


	4. IV

**IV**

She's so unsettled he can slip in and watch without her knowing he's there. He does this more often than she knows. However unsettled he has become, however close he dances the edge to madness—some moments, some days—he is still a master of the Force and he _can_ control it and himself.

For her, Kylo will make himself small. Small enough to hide in the wrinkles of her tangled thoughts.

She is thinking of his mother.

They haven't spoken of him yet. Beyond straightforward simplicities, that is. Rey explaining where she was, what happened between them. Dry facts, stripped of emotion...insofar as they can be. Kylo grins, fierce. Her emotions are turbulent, a current that could easily drown her. Good. He wants her lost in them, adrift in the maelstrom. They will bring her back to him, borne on a tide of her own bitter regrets of what might have been.

Everything is proceeding according to his visions, the visions that cloud his mind, his eyes, that cluster on him every time he thinks of her. The Force sings to him of what will be, of what they will be together. The galaxy is poised for change, a top teetering in its last whirl before falling. All he needs is her by his side, and they will tip the whole thing over.

Kylo sits in the web of her thoughts, a plump spider glutting itself fat on her ripe feelings towards him. So pleased is he that when Rey's heart goes cold and dead within her, he doesn't sense it for a long moment.

"General? You wanted to see me?"

"I think we're beyond that, aren't we? Come sit down."

He hasn't heard his mother's voice in so long. Recordings, holo-images, footage shot hastily by spies and smuggled over systems...none of that conveys how _weary_ she sounds. How worn. Her words are dry, crackling autumn leaves skittering across stones. She is old, he realizes suddenly. Strange how one never thinks of one's parents as old.

Rey sits like a schoolchild, shoulders drawn and knees together. Hands in her lap. Ready for a reprimand. He sees her clearly—he always does—but Leia is no more than a shadow bending towards her, one hand reaching out to cover Rey's whitened knuckles.

"Tell me what happened."

"I went to him. I thought I could bring him back. It was so _stupid_."

"No, it wasn't. Don't you think if I had the slightest hope for him that I would have gone myself?"

"There _is_ hope. I know it! My visions haven't changed...they've just drawn back. Like, like a wave from the shore. But they're not gone. I know there's still good in him."

"Why?"

She shakes her head. "He wasn't trying to kill me. Even at that last moment, when we broke the lightsaber in half," a wave of shame; she blames herself, "I could tell. He didn't want me dead. He was just trying to stop me."

"He knew you wouldn't turn."

It's frustrating, not seeing Leia's—the General's—face. Her voice is as it always has been. Full of dry humor, curiosity, and common sense. It's impossible to sense if she's questioning or stating a truth.

Rey is silent. Then, she gathers her courage along with her breath and plunges forward. "He doesn't see it as turning. He wanted—wants—me to help him stop it. All of it. The whole endless cycle of war and resistance."

"He wants to go back to the days of the Old Republic?"

" _No_ ," Rey draws her hands out from under Leia's and gestures aimlessly, "He wants..." _us to replace it_ , drifts across her mind. The words stick; she can't say them and feel anything other than complicit.

 _Say it_ , he urges her, tugging at her thoughts. Her longing for connection is a sure thread to pull; her compassion. And a red string of desire, bright and bloody, shining for him as his shines for her. He pulls on it, winding it round and round his fingers, each twist bringing their thoughts closer. She shudders.

 _Say it_.

"No," she whimpers. "Oh, no. He's here."

"I know," he _hears_ the smile in Leia's voice before the shadows recede and he sees her. Leia—his mother—looks at him from across the galaxy and regards him with love and pity, tears shining in her eyes.

"But it's time for him to go."


	5. V

**V**

She keeps him out. She keeps him _out._ Leia, who never trained with a master, who knows the barest lightsaber forms, who is _not his equal_ , keeps him from Rey. He can only feel her distantly now, as an echo of a peaceful dream faded with the dawn.

He reaches for her, calls for her, and feels a dead nothing in return. A silence vast as the distance between stars. Separation from Rey he had been willing to bear; luring her back to him is a game he enjoys playing, especially as he has never once doubted his success. But now, banned from the board...

It is infuriating and he will not let it continue.

"Supreme Leader," even the tremble in Hux's voice cannot assuage his wrath, "Are you certain? This planet has been a faithful ally in our cause. To bombard them in this fashion—"

"Security around the those shipyards is too tight for so many freighters to have been stolen. Someone on Ballic sold or gave them to the Resistance. Those freighters just destroyed a vital link in our supply chain, after the Resistance raided it for all they could. The Ballicans made that possible. Do you propose we allow such treason to go unpunished?"

"Our first volley will destroy Ballic Prime; our statisticians indicate a death toll of 1.3 billion. That's 1.3 _billion_ loyal citizens of the First Order. How do you suppose we replace our fleet if not from their shipyards?"

"I leave that to your good offices, General. But the bombardment will happen."

Hux couldn't be any more pale if he were choking on his tongue. He swells like a bullfrog and subsides into disagreeable croaks, choking himself before Kylo can do it.

"Very well, Supreme Leader. I will pass the order."

" _Give_ the order, General. There is no reason to wait."

He does not wait to hear what fresh equivocations Hux offers him. He has not tried reaching Rey yet today; this was the final bit of business the First Order required of him, and now he is free.

He stalks the corridors of the _Primacy_ and everyone scatters, skittering cockroaches clinging to the walls as he passes. They are fortunate that the Ballicans are there to bear the brunt of his wrath, wrath that spills from him like flames with every breath he takes.

Keeping any part of it in grows harder with each passing day.

In the privacy of his throne room, where no one dares set foot when he has not told them to do so, he can let some of it loose. Yet there is nothing whole to vent his rage on. The chamber is empty, barren of anything but the throne that squats there, hunched and waiting for him.

For the first time, he senses his dead master there, an ominous presence reaching out to him with claws that death has not dulled. Kylo hesitates before taking his place—his _rightful_ place.

"You're gone, monster," he murmurs to the pile of stone. "You can't control me any longer."

Snoke chuckles, a ripple that rolls over his skin, leaving slime in its wake. But he raises no objections and fades like a shadow.

Kylo smirks. Perhaps it is petty, taking victory over the dead, but he has waited so long to make Snoke feel the impotent frustration he always forced on Kylo that he will not stop himself from gloating.

But sweet as it is to be sitting on Snoke's ashes, he has more important things to consider. This is the sixteenth day he has lived without Rey, and he vows he will not know another.

The room shakes with his power, decking groaning buckling as he presses the Force into the shape he desires. The Dark builds until the room shakes from the effort of holding it, and when he slips too close to losing control entirely, he _reaches._

 _Rey, hear me. Answer me._

 _Please._

The Force presses at his ears, making them ring, deafening him with its growling roar. There is no answer. No answer.

The galaxy gives him nothing. All his power is useless.

Rey is gone.

The floor shatters, a dozen cracks splintering through the steel from where he falls forward on his hands. Tearing shrieks of metal gouge the silence but fill nothing within him. It's all nothing; means nothing. All this power, and it cannot bring her back to him.

He is alone. Ben Solo weeps, hot tears dripping between his spread, empty fingers.

"Supreme Leader," Over the comms, Hux's voice is superior, smooth. "We are ready to begin the bombardment."

"No," he croaks.

"Supreme Leader?"

"I said no. No bombardment."

He feels Hux's astonishment. At least he can still feel something. Exhausted beyond humor, even the joy he usually finds in tormenting his second, all Ben can do is repeat his order.

"No bombardment. The Ballicans will give us every destroyer they have, and we will hunt the Resistance down."

"I think that can be arranged."


	6. VI

**VI**

Leydo VII is a Core planet, but only just. Resting at the edge of a habitable zone, its surface is mostly dry tundra covered in tough scrub-brush infested with wiry-furred jackalopes. Its quadrupedal inhabitants are nomadic, traveling with their collapsible cities to follow where the sun is warmest.

The Resistance has sheltered there for two days. Part of the Resistance has, anyway. With their recent acquisition of Ballican freighters, there's finally enough room for everyone to have a bunk and a mission. Commander D'Acy has taken Lieutenant Connix and a squadron to patrol the edges of the system while Leia negotiates with the Leydans for permission to construct an outpost on their planet. Leydo's harsh climate shifts make the planet ideal for an underground base, while its proximity to the Core makes it less likely the First Order will look for them there.

Rey is glad the tide has turned and they are no longer skating the edge of desperation, but she misses everyone now that they're gone. Connix especially. She was a witch on the comms and had a credible Hux impression in her arsenal. The morning she did announcements in his voice, calling them all "Rebel scum" and "disgraces to the galaxy" was the first time in weeks everyone on the _Falcon_ had laughed together.

Laughter is again, a precious commodity. The dozen fighters that remain on the _Falcon_ to protect the General are quiet, focused on their tasks.

Rey, having done her usual systems check, sits in the mess, tinkering with Luke's broken lightsaber. She fears it's hopeless; the kyber crystal itself is cracked, and without a replacement all the mechanical fixes in the world won't put its soul back together. She sets it aside with a sigh and rests her heavy head in her hands.

That's how Poe finds her.

"Hey," he nudges at her shoulder, "Let's have a picnic."

"A what?"

He shakes his head and sighs. "You're sometimes so well-adjusted I forget you grew up in a sandpit. C'mon; you go get Rose and Finn and I'll take care of the rest."

Which is how, two hours later, Rey finds herself dozing underneath Leydo's weak sunlight, her stomach rounded with the enormous meal Poe had put together, head pillowed on Finn's shoulder.

She shifts closer and he groans. "That was excellent."

Rose laughs. "You've really never been on a picnic before?"

"Not really a specialty of the First Order. I mean, we'd eat outside on drills, but we weren't supposed to talk."

"My sister and I used to do this all the time. When you work in a mine you want to spend every other second in the fresh air," her voice grows hazy with memories, "We'd hike up this hill behind our house and pretend we were climbing into the sky. We'd eat our sandwiches and pick thornberries for dessert."

Rey closes her eyes, breathing in Finn's warmth. She has no stories to share, no past worth repeating. Her history began the moment she met BB-8. She doesn't remember a sister; if she ever had one, she probably met the same fate as Rey.

Sold off for drinking money. Tossed away like scrap.

She sits up, ignoring Finn's sound of protest. Dry wind stings her eyes but she forces them open, looking away to where the flat, gray-green horizon joins hands with the pale, mint-green sky.

 _I'm not nothing_ , she tells herself sternly. _I'm Rey._

Finn sits up, busses his shoulder against hers. "That was fun, right?"

She nods, heart swelling at the understanding she sees in his eyes. He has no history either, none that isn't shared by thousands or millions of First Order stormtroopers. Identical pasts, without memories of family or friends to lighten a harsh, grinding progression of days.

"Yeah," she says, winding her fingers around his. Their clasped hands rest between them, a bond strong and true.

Rey's other hand is empty, warm with sunlight, tickled by brush. She flexes the fingers, imagining another body sitting there, a hand reaching for hers.

Leia has taught her how to close him out, but…hasn't he been lonely too?

She closes her eyes, opens herself—just a fraction, just a peek—and imagines her hand closing around his. Imagines the three of them sitting together, full of food and friendship, inside a quiet moment of peace.


	7. VII

**VII**

 **Note:** This chapter earns an M rating.

* * *

He feels her skin beneath his fingers.

Every night, the Force sends him visions. Visions of her spread before him on a bed so soft and dark it seems woven of velvet shadows. Her hair is loose, spreading into the night, a corona of earthy brown framing her golden face. He touches her ankle and for a moment dares not reach higher.

Her bones are so fragile. Metatarsals, ankle, tibia…he could break them with a twist but she sighs up at him, enormous eyes smiling beneath a fringe of lashes, and lets him cradle her foot like a wounded animal.

The long expanse of her legs are too tempting to resist. Her skin is fine, worn down from years of drifting sand, furred gently with skirls of unshaved hair. His own hair is so wiry he hates to touch it. But Rey—at least in dreams—is all yielding softness.

Higher, higher. Her thigh quivers at the slow drag of his fingers, just the tips, dancing over a cluster of puckered scars. Real scars? The Force does not answer him, but he feels it showing him truth, not merely an echo of his own fevered frustration. Yet Kylo thinks that even in _his_ dreams, he would not have her any way but this, in all her imperfect perfections.

Overcome suddenly, his head tilts forward, chin resting on his chest. He has his scars too. That she gave him some doesn't make him resentful; he's oddly proud to wear her marks.

She sighs again, twisting her body so his fingers slip into the warm, damp heat between her thighs. He almost shies away, but the sharp gasp she makes sings fire to his blood and he reaches forward, forward.

Trembling fingers part her curls. They both take a deep, silent breath, and then his forefinger is circling and she's so slick he _hears_ it when he touches her.

Her golden skin has gone blotchy, patched red. Her scars bleed white. Her thin lips and furrowed brow could mean pain or pleasure, but her hand locks around his wrist and holds him to her, hips grinding against his soaked fingers.

It's too much. It's too much, watching her use him for her pleasure. His chest is so tight with love and lust and sorrow that he can't even breathe. She's gasping and panting, muffled curses that rasp from her throat until she goes rigid. Her groan is so deep it's like he tore it out from behind her ribs.

Her fingers bruise his wrist.

When at last she stops shaking and sighs, her smile is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Rey," he falls to his knees beside her, sliding his hand away so he can touch her fingers, "Rey…" he can't think of what comes next. He wants something from her, something more than this. Something important. What is it?

 _Ben_

He blinks, momentarily blind. The world around him has gone white, and the yielding vision laid before him has disappeared.

But Rey is there. He feels her for the first time in weeks; the Bond is open, and she is there.

Her head rests on a hassock of course grass, relaxed as though it were a silk pillow, body curved gently inward, lying on dry earth. He lies beside her, staring up at a pale, small sun.

He blinks and looks away. Sun, grass…a vast plain that contains nothing but the empty wind and the two of them. She has been careless, dozing off with the Bond thrown open like this. Kylo's powers have only been growing. If he'd been awake when she'd let him in, he would have found her by now.

He still has time. There are only so many places the Resistance could be hiding, and he has planned for this.

A hand locks around his wrist, precisely where she bruised him, and he flinches as though she's flayed him to the bone.

"Ben," she murmurs, "There you are."


	8. VIII

**VIII**

He can't answer. Being near her again after so long is disorienting, the more so because he can't reconcile his two visions of her. Would this girl rut against his fingers, blind in pursuit of her pleasure, bruising his skin to hold him where she wants? She looks at him with the same eyes, wide and wondering.

Her palm is identical; her grip just as insistent. Would the rest of her be?

"Where are you?"

Her lips twitch. "I'm not telling you."

"Why not? Perhaps you want me to. You let me find you."

"It took you long enough," she says, and is she disgruntled?

"I was preoccupied," he longs to tell her with what, but doesn't want her to go. She would; she'd be furious, she'd slam the door closed, and he'd be alone again. The thought is unbearable. If he hopes to find her, he will need to pry the information from her mind, but...he can't bear to lose even the little bit of her she allows him.

"You won't get anything out of me, you know."

He misses the mask; his face is too expressive, too mobile. She doesn't help; Rey makes him weak when he most needs to be strong.

He sneers, "Be careful of that pride. You're strong, but you can't believe you're strong enough to keep me out without Leia helping you. I don't sense her nearby."

Her brow furrows in that way it has, when she's trying desperately to understand. But she doesn't ask how he knows. She doesn't speak.

"How have you been?"

"You're really asking me that?" she laughs. She rolls over on her side so they're stretched out face-to-face and there's no more than a half-meter between their bodies. The sweat of her mingles with fresh gorse and tingles in his nose. Salt and sweet; he could kiss it off her skin.

"Yes."

When she realizes he isn't going to give another answer, she finally replies. "Fine. We're all fine."

"I don't care about _we_. What about _you_?"

"You should care," she goes on the offensive, "I've learned a lot about you, these past few weeks."

"From my mother?" If she hopes to throw him off-balance, she is disappointed. He has been expecting this.

Rey nods. "She loves you. So much," a rain cloud drifts into her eyes and hazes them, "I—you know who my parents were. What they did to me. I can't understand how you can have a mother who loves you...and do this to her."

For the first time, she draws her hand away. He chases it, presses it beneath his to the dirt. It shakes in his grasp.

"She sent me away. My mother. She was afraid of me, of what I was becoming. So she sent me to Skywalker. I was ten. _That's_ the mother who loved me."

Rey avoids his gaze; it's clear that she knows. "Snoke was corrupting your mind. She was trying to protect you."

"And see what happened," his tone is too wry for humor. "Skywalker failed, tried to conceal his failure with murder, and lost everything."

"He regretted threatening you the moment he drew his lightsaber. He _never_ would have killed you."

"Does that matter? The Force was drawing me towards something greater; it would have achieved its purpose regardless. I have always been its instrument; you have been too."

She swallows. "An instrument of what?"

"Of change," she's listening to him at last, a flower turning towards the sun, "We are the last, the greatest users of the Force. We can achieve whatever we wish."

"And what is that?"

"A new order in the galaxy."

Rey huffs and sits upright. He loses his hold on her; his hand feels chilled. "What does that even _mean_?" she grumbles, but her anger isn't at him. She has been thinking of him, of his words, trying to puzzle them out herself.

His heart leaps.

"It means," he must be gentle, so gentle. _She_ must come to him; he cannot force her, "no more abandoned, frightened children."


	9. IX

**IX**

Rey must be crazy. Insane to listen to him, ridiculous to linger on thoughts of him after he's gone. Dottier than a pregnant moof-cow. That's what she is.

She feels like like the truth is beaming from her; a neon advertisements for synthale, gaudy and bright. She's proud that her poker face is better than Ben's—not that there's much challenge there—but she hasn't ever had to lie to anyone like this. Never had to smile on one side of her face and deceive on the other. They'll find out, of course. One day. Something will slip, she knows. It's as inevitable as the damn thermal axis on the _Falcon_ depolarizing just when they need it most.

But she can't stop.

No, it's worse than that. If Rey lies to everyone else, she mustn't lie to herself. She _can_ stop; when she's not able to talk, she uses the skills Leia taught her and keeps him out. She _can_ stop him.

But she doesn't. And she won't.

It's pathetic. She knows he's luring her towards him, dangling himself as though he's inches away from falling back into the Light. Tempting her with the thought of fulfilling her mission at last, of redeeming him by some lucky combination of magic words. Of having him at her side as they fight the First Order.

They're playing a waiting game, both of them. The closer they draw towards each other, the more likely it is that one of them will turn; ships circling a black hole, locked in decaying orbit. Whoever can hold out the longest, wins. Wins...like it's all some silly game.

"Rey?"

She jerks upright, forgetting she's stretched under a skimmer, repairing its engine.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," Rose winces as Rey rolls from under the ship, nursing a lump the size of a duffer egg, "It's just...we're coming up on Psyllia. Poe's gonna be in the escort fighter; he wants you to take the _Falcon_."

"Right," Rey shakes stars out of her eyes, grateful for the pain. It sears Ben's image from behind her eyes. "Yeah. Just a moment."

"Sorry," Rose twists her fingers, "Can I get you a bacta-patch?"

"No, it's fine," she forces herself upright, ignoring how the cargo bay swims before her eyes. "I've gotta go. Good luck."

"May the Force be with you," Rose smiles, and heads down the corridor to the gunnery station.

 _Don't think about him. Don't wonder if he's here. How could he be, with all the other operations we're running in this quadrant?_

"Who gave you the shiner?"

"I did," she grumbles. "Banged my head."

"Need a patch?" Poe's attention is only half on her. Psyllia looms up before them, a steel-gray marble suspended in dead space between two red giants. It glints with an evil, metallic light, an eye taking her measure in one cold, apathetic glance.

Rey swallows. The Dark side is strong here. "No."

"Good. The _Valiant_ is at our top hatch now; I've gotta go."

"Good luck," she doesn't want to invoke the Force just then. The less its malevolent attention is on them, the better.

He grins. "You too. Watch the gravity wells on the far side of this rock. They'll catch you hard if you're not careful, and we'd have a hard time pulling you out."

"Right," she slides into the pilot's chair to Chewie's welcoming chirrup. "I've got this; get going."

Poe's running footfalls fade down the corridor, and the cockpit is quiet save for consoles beeping and the nest of porgs in the rafters cooing over their chicks. Rey smiles; those stupid birds take some of the edge off her anxiety. She can unclench her jaw and her teeth don't chatter.

Chewie wails.

"You're right," Rey sits forward and eases them into maneuvers, "It's time."

Poe is right; the gravity wells around the planet make the _Falcon_ squeal as she glides closer. Below them, the escort ships plummet towards Psyllia and, more importantly, the frack-mines clustered on its pockmarked surface. A successful score from those mines will fuel the Resistance for months.

Their job is simple: keep in close orbit of Psyllia until the ships return from the surface. Then, provide cover fire until the escorts get back into lead freighters _Resurgence_ and _Hope_. If they're very, very lucky, the frack-mines won't see them coming in time to signal the First Order fleet that's only two light years away. Even if they don't, it'll still be a very close thing.

They're skimming the upper atmosphere now and Rey puts them into as tight an orbit as she dares. Bloody sunlight reflects off leaden clouds and blinds her. Chewie's no better off; they're at the mercy of their proximity sensor if they want to detect any incoming ships.

One orbit; so far so good. Two; Rey's stomach finally relaxes.

That's when Ben's presence slams into her like a sand-skipper.

"Chewie, deflectors up _now_!"

They don't help. His first blast hits them so hard he knocks them beneath the clouds.


	10. X

**X**

Rey's head slams against the console and shrieking metal screams in her ears, merging with panicked porg squawks and Chewie's roars. For a moment everything is chaos; then it resolves into a pattern of cascading emergencies.

"Inertial dampeners are failing! We're losing altitude fast! R2," she hollers down the corridor, "see if you can patch those dampeners before they give way!"

R2's panicked chirps are almost impossible to hear, but he assures her—among his many binary curses—that he'll do his goddamned best. Chewie, meanwhile, has wrenched them back into something like an orbit, although they're so far beneath the clouds that if they don't gain altitude soon they'll be in danger from planetary barrages.

And none of this takes into account Kylo's continued assault from above.

"Hang on!" she yells—to R2, Chewie, and herself—before flipping them in a series of barrel-rolls that twists the clouds in their wake like skeins of dirty, tangled yarn. Rey's had months to get comfortable with the _Falcon's_ finicky handling, and for a moment she thinks she's lost him. But she forgets...Kylo knew it long before she did. His ship knifes after them, a deadly blade that cuts through weak red light and gray clouds alike.

Their rear deflector is almost gone; he's going after their engines, trying to cripple, not to kill. This small mercy gives Rey an idea.

"Turn us around," she orders, "all power to forward shields. Get me into position and I'll see if I can knock out his guns."

The floor lurches beneath her and the corridor heaves like a sinking ship as she stumbles down the hall. Their automated turrets are no good against a pilot like Kylo who knows how to avoid them; she'll have to take him on herself.

He scores a solid hit just as her foot touches the ladder to the gunnery station; she falls halfway down before managing to wrap her arms around the posts. Stopping her fall almost jerks her arms out of her sockets. Rey screams and hangs on.

The barrage stops. She feels an echo of her own pain vibrate from somewhere outside her body. Kylo's ship passes so close by them the gunnery windows rattle in their frames.

He feels her. Close, like this, the connection their Bond provides goes beyond the mental and emotional. It touches the physical. Her pain hurt him too.

Good. Rey bares her teeth against her shoulders' ache and scrambles down the ladder. Good. If he wants to bring her down, he'll have to suffer for it.

He's swung wide, a looping arc that gives her precious minutes to get into position. The guns are warmed, the grip fits perfectly in her hand. She sets her sights on him and zeroes in.

"You want me?" she mutters, thumbs resting on the triggers, "Come get me."

 _Happy to_.

His guns are more powerful, his skills sharper. Their forward deflector takes two full blasts before Rey has a chance to fire a volley of her own. She misses, but he swings away again. Running. Coward.

"Keep us on him, Chewie! Give me a shot at his weapons or engines," she drops her voice and grits through her teeth, "and then we'll see."

The horizon dances beneath them as Chewie gets onto Kylo's tail and struggles to stay here. The sleek outline of his narrow ship blends with the dark earth below, but Rey can see him. Even if she couldn't, she doesn't need to. She senses him, closer than her own heartbeat and just as insistent. She'll have him right where she wants him, hunt him like he tried to hunt her.

A frisson of _something_ ripples across the Bond. It's not quite pleasure, but it's flavored strongly by it. She can almost see his crooked grin. He feels her focus on him and it tingles on his skin like trickles of cold water. Emotion bleeds into her and she shudders, feeling for an instant like both a hunter and the hunted.

"Stop that," she commands him, but her voice is weak, uncertain.

 _Stop me_.

"Fine."

So close, so close. Her cross-hairs are on him, and—

An impact on their lightly-shielded belly knocks Rey out of her chair, head slamming against the ceiling. She can't catch her body as it flops back into the gunnery seat, nor can she stop it as the _Falcon_ begins to turn and turn in a spiraling descent towards the planet's surface. Rey stares up at Kylo's ship as it descends upon them from above, a black bird of prey coming to feast on a corpse.


	11. XI

**XI**

Rey wakes without realizing that she'd been asleep. Unconscious, rather. Her head feels like a hive of yedrin mites are swarming inside it; her ears ring with the chatter of sharp gnawing teeth.

"Chewie?" she groans, rolling over, only to immediately fall out of the narrow bed in the med-bay.

Her copilot doesn't respond.

"He's fine. He's still sedated."

" _You—_ " she lunges up from the ground before it hits her that her ankle is rather badly twisted. The minute her body weight lands on it, she falls forward. Kylo catches her, bare palms against the exposed skin of her upper arms.

It's the first time she's touched him since their battle against the praetorian guards. It's the first time they've made contact like this. Skin-to-skin. In the flesh.

She struggles out of his hold. "Get your hands off me," she snarls.

He makes no objection as she limps backwards, coming to rest heavily against the bed. He turns his hands up in a harmless gesture, face blank and empty. If his hands tingle like her arms do, with the phantom of their touch still ghosting the skin, he doesn't show it. Rey reaches for peace and balance, but it slips through her fingers. Her heart is racing.

He's staring, silent. There's an expression on his face like he's tremendously pleased with himself. It's unbearable.

"What?" she snaps.

"I didn't think I would be able to bring you down," he says, "Without the ground batteries, you probably would have escaped. Would have," his lips twitch, "if you hadn't been so focused on bringing _me_ down too."

"Well, I didn't. So why don't you tell me what you want? Is the rest of the Order on its way?"

"They're busy chasing the Resistance. It's just us here."

He's so calm. How is he so calm? There are scarabs crawling in Rey's veins.

If only the pain in her head would go away, she could get a clearer read on his feelings. But the room is swimming and she's so close to panic she wants to vomit. Her fault, it's all her fault. She chased rage and it's led to disaster for her and Chewie and maybe the rest of the Resistance.

Her head drops forward. "What do you want?"

"You."

It's so absurd she starts to laugh. "Do you really think I'll have anything to do with you? Do you really think you can f-force me into—"

"No, Rey," _that's_ upset him, but why? Weeks ago, wounds still raw from their rupture, he hadn't shied away from the idea of dragging her back to him. "I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't you? What is this, then?"

"I have a plan. I want you to hear it."

"A plan," it's so out of character for him that it knocks the wind out of Rey's indignation. "About what?"

"About the future of the galaxy," at her incredulous stare, the twitch on his lips broadens into what passes for his smile. "You've been thinking about what I've said. I know it."

"Yes," she doesn't want to admit it, but he'll feel her lie, "I've been thinking that it's impossible. No one can promise what you promised. The Old Republic couldn't prevent slavery; the Empire didn't care about trying. All your stormtroopers were taken from their families at birth, and I don't see you trying to stop _that_ either."

Rey's rage is building again; she can't stop it any more than she can hold back the tides with her bare hands.

"The moment I do, Hux will move against me," it's infuriating, his serenity. She's never known Kylo to be this tranquil. His voice is measured, even, as though he's played this conversation out dozens of times like a well-worn holovid. "If I want to maintain my power, I need the rest of the galaxy united against the First Order."

"Then why are you undermining the Resistance? We're _trying_ to get the galaxy to work against you!"

"And you're not succeeding. You're selling a conflict of arms. I'm planning the formation of a new galactic order."

Against her will, she leans forward. "What kind of order?"

For the first time, he sits. The med-bay is so small that their knees almost touch. Rey feels his whole self inclining towards her, bending towards her with invisible tendrils of will. His power brushes against hers, coaxing fingers brushing against her face, her hair. It's off-putting but endearing, somehow.

He's holding himself in such check she feels him tremble with the effort.

"You mentioned the Old Republic. I knew the New Republic. Both were ineffective, drowning in bureaucracy. You may not like the First Order, but it rose to eminence in the galaxy within two decades."

Rey opens her mouth for a biting remark, but Kylo brushes the backs of her fingers. She gasps instead.

Even his calm shows a jagged fracture as he pulls his hand back and goes on. "I want to leave the structure of the First Order intact. A military-government organ to carry out the orders of a small, ruling body."

"A ruling body of one, I guess," she counters. "You haven't mentioned stepping down as Supreme Leader."

He doesn't contradict her. "If I do, men like Hux will fill the void instantly. If I rule alone, the Resistance will keep riling the galaxy against me. This plan only works on two conditions: if I destroy all generals who are loyal to Hux in one quick stroke, and if someone from the Resistance agrees to join me in ruling the Order."

"I don't think your mother will agree to taking over a dictatorship."

"She won't. But I think you will."


	12. XII

**XII**

"You can't be serious," she's too shocked to be offended or afraid; she just stares. "We've had this conversation again and again. I _will never join you_. And you won't join me," she looks away. This stunt of his has driven the future she sees further away. It's so dim that she can't even trace its outline anymore.

It hurts to have lost it like this, lost the Ben Solo she imagined when Kylo Ren is sitting in front of her.

"You're not listening. If the galaxy is truly to change, it needs influences from both sides. If you refuse this, you're condemning us to continue the fighting. Is fighting really doing anyone any good?"

Damn him. When did he get so logical? "How could I believe you wouldn't—try to—"

He winces. "You could stop me if I did."

She swallows. At least he's not denying the danger. "Is that supposed to encourage me to trust you?"

"Trust this," his shame flares into anger, the first he's displayed since this insanity started, "Yes, I want you. You know I do. Just as I know you want me," there's a current in his voice, dark and insistent, that threatens to pull her into a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The emotional bleed from the Bond makes her shift uneasily as his lust fires her blood too.

Her pulse is insistent between her thighs.

"I don't—"

"You drew me to you," his words knock the air from her lungs, "Invited me in. Spoke to me. Heard me. Why, if not to tempt me back to the Light? Why, if not because you believed that change— _my_ change—was possible?"

"I—" all her reasons for speaking to him now seem feeble. Her own weakness, drawing all this disaster down on her now. "I didn't want you to be lonely."

"I know," he murmurs. "You cared enough to spare me from that. Don't deny it now."

He turns one hand upwards, pale palm flushed and trembling. He won't reach for her, she realizes. Not unless she reaches first.

She can't. She's not ready.

"You betrayed me. Left my friends to die. Attacked us," she knots her fingers together so she's not tempted, "Am I supposed to forget that, and believe you now?"

"I'll never shut myself off from you," the promise comes readily, eagerly. "I swear."

"That's not enough."

"No," he leans back, digging his closed fist into his knee. She's glad to see it—she's glad. "How about this? I'll destroy Hux, Mylar, Rhi'ilin, and Abaloe. All the Grand Marshals of the Order. All those responsible for chasing you down right now."

Rey feels hope fluttering in her chest like a moth, desperate to draw nearer the light, the possibility she sees in his words. But she can't trust it; it's burned her before. However genuine Kylo—Ben—seems now, he's turned on her in the past.

"That won't prove anything," she shrugs, "except that you're getting rid of any opposition to your rule."

"It will prove everything when we appoint new leaders to take their places. Would you oppose joining me if you could fill the ranks of the New Order?"

"Not if I could only choose from officers of the First Order."

"You could choose from anyone in the galaxy," he counters.

She swallows, but it doesn't help. Her throat is dryer than the sinking sands of Jakku. "You don't mean it."

"Search my feelings. Feel the truth if you won't hear it."

Rey's eyelids flutter as, instead of waiting for her to reach out to him, Ben simply rips himself open and presents himself to her. His feelings are raw as fresh meat, bleeding and sore. Doubt, fear, self-loathing, thwarted desire…Rey gasps, tears welling up in spite of herself. It must be agony, living like this.

"Ben," she whispers, leaning forward. His hand doesn't open as she touches it, but she wheedles her fingers in between his. Her head screams at her, screams that this is wrong, that he's too unstable to give in so easily. But Rey can't see him in so much pain and do nothing to help. She's known too much of Ben Solo to shield herself from him fully.

She's tried, and he's right—she's failed. It's time to stop lying to herself.

"I—I need to think about it."

His fingers are steel cuffs, locked around her wrist. "For how long?"

She forces herself to relax at this involuntary threat. _A moment. A year. An eternity. Don't ask me; I'll never be ready._

"A week," is her compromise. Already she feels the days weighing on her shoulders, and beyond them, a future black with uncertainty. "A week, and I'll meet you back here."

There's a moment in which every possibility shimmers in the air between them. Then, he lets her go.

"A week," he's withdrawn from her and she feels him gathering his wounded feelings together again. "Very well. I will have the technicians at the mines repair the _Falcon_ ; you can take one of their ships out of here."

"What? No. I'm leaving with the _Falcon_."

He shakes his head, a glimmer of smug superiority showing again. "There are half a dozen holes in the hull, and Chewie needs time to recover. They'll both be better off here."

She already regrets trusting him. "So he'll be your hostage? You want me to trust you when you won't trust me?"

"I trust you when you're with me," he smiles, sadly, "But you're not yet, are you?"


	13. XIII

XIII

It takes her three days to find the Resistance. Three days of navigating a cranky old mining vessel through the vast blackness of space, trying to pick up weak delta wave frequencies from their comms. Three days of silence punctuated only by her screaming thoughts.

If nothing else, those frightening, lonely days give her time to come to terms with the fact that she's already made her choice. Of course, that doesn't mean she has to _like_ her choice. She doesn't. Like a young bantha driven in harness, Rey bucks and heaves against the inevitable, even as she knows she's lost.

Luckily, the cluster of corvettes she falls in with happens to be ferrying General Leia to rendezvous with the _Resurgence._ Unluckily, Rey will have to leave before they get there. Which means that she might have said her final farewell to Rose, Finn, and Poe without even knowing it.

The thought gives her a curious, hollow feeling, as if all her guts have been scooped out and she's missing something vital inside. Who knows when, or _if_ , they'll see each other again? If they'll even want to see her?

Leia has given her space to meditate and time to think. An island of agitation in the midst of comfortable, noisy confusion, Rey stares out the window of the mess hall and considers the stars.

Curious. She isn't thinking about her friends, or Leia, or the questions that eat at her like acid. Rey is thinking of the stars.

How she doesn't know their names yet, but will. How they mass outside the window in a dazzling array, jewels scattered across black velvet, and even though they mean nothing to her now, she is about to be intimately connected to them in a way she never dreamed.

How she'll be responsible for them. How her hand—the hand that's shaking around a cup of juice—will guide them.

"I can't do this," she whispers. "I can't."

 _I'm nobody_.

She drains the juice and chokes down the rest of her lunch in great gnashing bites, though her stomach lurches unevenly as she does. Rey can't break her habit of eating everything she takes; sending food to disposal feels wrong on a visceral level akin to murder.

Leia sees her the instant she comes onto the bridge. Rey could break down in tears when the General excuses herself instantly and escorts her from the room.

"I—"

"It's all right," Leia's arm is around her shoulder and she squeezes, "wait a moment."

She ushers them into a tiny conference room shared by two broken-down R6 units and motions her to a stool. Rey perches, a hollow-boned thessal-bird, skittish and ready to fly at the first sound.

"You look like a girl backed into a corner," Leia's eyes are infinite in their sadness, "Dangerous. I take it you've made up your mind?"

Their last conversation had been soaked in tears, and Rey vows she won't cry again. She bites down hard on her inner cheek, nodding.

"I think I have to."

"I think you think you do," Leia's eyes slide shut, "and you might not be wrong. If Ben means what he promises, this could be a huge chance for us."

"You really think you can outmaneuver him?"

She nods, eyes still closed. "If he's busy taking out his own staff, he won't notice what we're doing. If we're lucky, we'll take him alive. Just make sure you get out of the way when we make our move. You got your sub-dermal put in?"

Rey hums, feeling the tiny, hard lump above her elbow where the faint incision has already disappeared. The implant will emit a sharp, percussive code; she spent part of the afternoon memorizing the code and practicing tapping messages out on her skin.

"The problem is," Leia rubs her eyes and leans forward on her knees, "we'll have to keep a close tail on you. That transmitter doesn't have much of a range."

"The gravity wells around Psyllia should give you somewhere to hide. From there…"

"From there, it'll be a game of luck," Leia finishes grimly. "If we lose track of you and have to act, you could get caught in the crossfire. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"No," her voice shakes, "No, I'm not. I'm not even sure—" she doesn't want to admit it—not to Leia, not to anyone—but she must, "I'm not even sure he's wrong. What if he's telling the truth, and he really wants to change the First Order into something…better?"

There is no judgment in Leia's gaze, only patient understanding. "I think he _is_ telling the truth. I just don't think he knows what 'better' means. I love my son, I always will. That doesn't mean he's ready to run the whole damn galaxy."

"Even with you? If he's serious about appointing new leadership for the Order?"

Leia sighs. "I'm old, Rey. Too old to be the only hope in the galaxy. My husband and brother and more friends than I care to think about are dead. I'm not sure how many more rounds of this game I can play."

 _That_ panics her. More than walking alone into Kylo's hands, more than being the sole Resistance fighter in a sea of First Order drones. If Leia won't help her…

"Don't worry," she's seen the horror spreading on Rey's face like mold, "I'm not about to put down my cards just yet. Now, if you're going to make that rendezvous on Psyllia, you'll have to leave tomorrow, right? What should we do between now and then?"

"I thought I'd just meditate for a while. Maybe practice my saber forms." Rey isn't sure what surprises she can prepare for Kylo, but she has the sinking feeling twelve hours won't be enough for anything.

"Hmm. And here I was looking for someone to split a bottle of Corellian brandy and watch the latest episode of _Love on the River of Stars_."

For the first time in days, Rey smiles. "Finn's favorite."

"Yours too, if the shrieking I heard in the rec room a week ago was any indication. Come on," she stands and pulls Rey upright.

"Meditation and sword-fighting are all well and good, but tomorrow's troubles will come soon enough. Don't think about them today."


	14. XIV

**XIV**

She's coming. Though the Bond is cold and dead and Kylo wallows in its quietude, he nevertheless knows that Rey will be with him soon.

Meditation is no use. He can't sit still for longer than a few minutes to rest legs that haven't stopped moving for days. He's making the miners nervous, desperate to do whatever they need to in order to prevent his rage from falling on them. Their poor administrator, a hapturian called Valr Cho, has torn out several of his long chin-hairs in frustration, trying to appease Kylo's restlessness.

The only solution for them both is to stay far apart. He's commandeered Cho's quarters and has worn a rut in the floor, pacing. Waiting. Beneath the room's long viewport, the mine bustles with model activity, but he doesn't see any of it. He doesn't want to see it. Rey has shut him out without a glimmer, but he imagines the world through her eyes. She's gazing at a star field, maybe. Perhaps his mother's face.

He hopes she found Leia. The General would tell her—if she hadn't already come to the conclusion herself—that Kylo's offer isn't one lightly scorned. No. He will not be anxious. She will come. She's coming.

He hasn't slept. The reflection he avoids seeing in the viewport is paler than usual, dark bruises of sleeplessness heavy under his eyes. The moment Rey lays eyes on him, she'll know how much he has wanted this. Wanted her. Wanted them to be together.

Kylo scoffs at his own reticence. So she'll know. He told her he would open himself to her; he meant it, means it still. His every thought will be hers. She can run her little fingers through his mind, spreading his thoughts like silk. He's never hidden his desires from her; he's not ashamed of them.

And now, it's so close, the future that sings to him from behind closed eyes. So close he could part the gossamer veil of time and put his hands on it, pull it to him. In a few hours, the stars will part and her ship will land. They will take their first step together into a vision that will alter the galaxy's reality.

His breath catches in his throat; his feet stutter to a stop and he leans against the viewport's narrow sill. There's nothing of her here but he _feels_ her. She'll be with him. Forever.

 _Forever_.

It's a thought that grows in his mind until tendrils of it run through every other thought that blooms. He won't be alone anymore, not with Rey at his side. She may fear him, doubt him, but she _understands_ him. As time passes, she'll begin to love him. As he loves her. Love enough to give a life for. To give a galaxy for.

She _must_ feel him, however hard she's trying to keep him out. Every feeling he has, every thought, every emotion, is bent on her. The air itself seems charged with fate, possibility.

Perhaps it's his imagination, but just then she tickles at his mind like a fish tugging at a lure.

She's coming. No…she's _here_.

Kylo turns on his heel as the door opens.

Valr Cho bows, tugging his last three chin-hairs lose in agitation, heavy jowls jiggling as he rises. "Forgive me, Supreme Leader, but—"

Kylo is past him already.

She's a vision, hazy…less real somehow in that dank gray air than the shape of their future that every second grows brighter. Her clothes, her hair, even her warm skin are beset by shadows, drowning in darkness. He pauses mid-stride, waiting. When she moves, she'll shimmer away, a mirage of desert heat and fever dreams.

She turns and does not vanish. Her eyes are clear, soft, and light. Sparks reflect from them until they almost glow in the twilight air.

"Rey," he says. If he had a conclusion, it disappears when she wets her lips to speak.

"I don't know what to call you," she murmurs. "You're not Ben anymore, are you? Were you," she breathes, quick and fast, "were you ever?"

The truth will ruin her tattered hopes, but he will not offer her a lie. He never has. "I was once. Not anymore."

She nods, swallowing her disappointment. "Then what do I call you? Supreme Leader? Lord Ren?"

Of all the things he'd expected would upset her, this catches him by surprise. He should have expected it. Rey has had nothing but her name to build a life around. She crafted something to be proud of, a legend of her own to believe in. Rey. Survivor.

He can't say the same. All his life, his name oppressed him. Ben, for the Jedi master. Organa, for a dead royal legacy. Solo, for adventure and passion and love. Kylo Ren, for a creature of strength and power he had hoped to become and could never be.

Now, Supreme Leader. A name more false than all the others.

"I suppose I'll call you Kylo," she says, "since there's nothing else left."


	15. XV

**XV**

She can't sleep. She hasn't closed her eyes in sixty-three hours, anticipating her return, and now, when all decisions are behind her and her fate is well and truly out of her hands, she can't sleep.

Rey throws off the blankets and sits upright, huddling against the cold steel wall like a burrow-hare sensing a predator. The atmosphere of his shuttle is heavy with menace, pregnant with shadows and echoes of old pain. It's hard to forget that he kept her prisoner on this very same ship, though she wasn't awake to know it. Nor, she assumes, did she have such nice quarters during her abduction from Takodana.

They _are_ nice. The _Revenge_ has three cabins reserved for crew, and he has given her the best. She suspects Kylo ordered the half-squadron of stormtroopers to clean every inch of it the instant she touched down. Whether they also had to remove Kylo's possessions from it, she can't be sure, but she can imagine him there. Standing wide-legged at the window as stars streak past at light-speed.

She can almost see him. The tense rigidity of his back, his crossed arms. Slowly, she slides out of bed and crosses the room. Slowly, as if she might scare away his shadow, she plants her feet next to his.

Struck by her foolishness, Rey scoffs. He's not there. He's left her alone, like...like...a gentleman. Like a gracious host. Like he doesn't want to impose his presence on her. They've danced around her since the instant she landed, but Rey is ready for a fight. She wants to bare her teeth and sink them into something, anything.

Turning on her heel, Rey slams her fist against the door lock and lets herself out into the cargo bay.

Rows of sleeping stormtroopers in swaying hammocks greet her. They don't remove their armor, even while resting; only their helmets lie in neat rows against the bay walls. Two of them turn to face her, weapons at ease. They don't speak; perhaps they've been directed to leave her alone unless she makes a break for the cockpit. _That_ , she was informed, is definitely off-limits. Even Kylo isn't foolish enough to think she isn't capable of commandeering the ship and sailing it straight back to the Resistance if given the chance.

She wants to. She'd much rather argue with him on her turf than his.

But, since it's not an immediate option, Rey crosses the cargo bay and ducks into the crew mess. It's abandoned—no, no it's not. _Kriffing hells._

"You can't sleep either?"

His head jerks upright. "No. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

His lips twitch. "I'm not as adept at closing myself off as you are. I'm keeping you awake."

"Oh," it takes the rage out of her guts, somewhat. Knowing he's trying to spare her. She'd really rather he didn't. "I don't think I'd be able to sleep anyway," he's not picking a fight, but she craves one, "Could you, if you were in my place?"

"Probably not," he won't rise.

She tries again. "Of course you, you could if you wanted to. You wouldn't have to worry that we'd kill you while you were sleeping."

"Are you worried.?"

She's angry, frustrated, exhausted enough to lie, but she won't. There's no point. "No."

"I don't want you dead."

"I know," the truth stifles her angry fire. Too tired to support her rage any longer, she sits across the table from him, crossing her arms until she feels the warmth from his.

His gaze drops from her eyes, to her lips, to her hands. A thought flashes across her mind, of their fingers intertwined, and she can't tell if the vision began in his imagination or hers. This close to him, her emotions are jumbled and uncertain. Can they create new emotions...shared emotions?

"I don't know," he says. His fingers slide against themselves, as though he's trying to resist the temptation to reach for her. To take what he wants, like he threatened to when they first met.

And just like that, Rey's furious again. How dare he be so solicitous, so careful! How dare he pretend as though he didn't do everything he could, play every trick he knew, to get her here! And now that she _is_ here, he won't even put a hand on her!

In the end, she reaches out. Slides her fingers between his. Squeezes until his bones grate. It's painful, grasping, and messy, but it's _something_. Something solid she can build from. Not being afraid to touch him. Not letting him be afraid to touch her. They can't waltz forever; they are meant to fight.

Kylo doesn't draw back. He turns his palm so they're holding hands properly, and his other hand is unfurling and closing around hers like a tanglevine.

Too late, Rey realizes that it hasn't been fear holding him back. It's been the knowledge that once she allowed him to touch her, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He's not stopping; her hands are tiny beneath his, dwarfed entirely. Lost.

His gaze moves from her hands, to her eyes, to her lips. Rey's heart skips like a startled doe behind her sternum.

He closes slowly. Rey has an eternity to decide whether or not she will turn away.


	16. XVI

**XVI**

It takes thirteen days of travel, even at light-speed, for them to rendezvous with the _Primacy_ and the bulk of the First Order's fleet. Thirteen days to stew in frustration, in self-loathing, in disgust. Rey's so tangled, so twisted, some days she wants to eat herself alive like a serpent devouring its own tail in confusion.

Mornings are worst. They share breakfast, alone in the echoing mess. Plans hatch and unspool as they speak, plots to overthrow some of the very men sitting just beyond the bulkhead. Grand Marshals. Generals. Grasping, ambitious captains. They will all be swept away, and Rey should be glad. On her knees grateful that Kylo hasn't lied, that he means to make this happen.

She can't be grateful. _I hate you_ , she thinks, taking a roll from his hand. _You're repulsive_ , she breaks off a bit and spreads it with butter so rich it melts salty-sweet on her tongue. _I want you to kiss me again, kiss me till I can't breathe_ , her gorge rises and she turns away.

 _I'm disgusting._

It's better when they fight. From the first, when he suggested sparring, she turned down an offer of dull, heavy batons. They duel with lit sabers, sparks flying in the close air of the cargo bay, singeing the stale atmosphere with iron and flame. Then, she can hate them both in actions, since she can't in words. Open her mouth and scream. Pant. Grunt. Moan when she invariably ends up on the cold deck beneath his heavy bulk.

Time and again, she loses.

They both know why.

He presses his advantage; he can't help it, nor does she expect him to. He stands too close, crowds her with his height and weight and muscle. The Force flows between them but Rey can't channel it as she once did, childlike, expecting it to be there when and how she wants it. Calm is a fleeting mirage she finds in moments just after waking, when her memories haven't yet flooded in. She fights from hate, from passion, but it fails her now as it has failed him in all their past clashes.

In some distant corner of her heart, she feels Master Luke's displeasure. But she can't stop, she _can't_.

She hits the floor with a dull thud that rings out like a gong.

Rey ignores Kylo's outstretched hand, rolling catlike and shooting up from her knees. He's overbalanced, reaching out; her headlong rush catches him in the ribs and barrels them both to the floor.

She rests her saber's still-hot mouth against his jumping carotid, grinning at how he flinches when his flesh begins to burn. Blood from her cut lip—another of his gifts, his generosity is boundless—drips onto his cheek. A visceral rose, too red for pale skin.

"Yield," it's a word he taught her. How to surrender without surrendering. He's never said it, not once, not once. She'll drag it from his throat if she has to tear open his skin with her nails and teeth.

"I yield," he whispers, body trembling like a reed caught in a storm.

She grins. Stands. Offers her hand.

Kylo scorns it and rises unaided. But he's not angry...he's proud.

"Well fought," he touches his tender ribs where her shoulder rearranged them. Rey licks her bloody lips; the sight freezes him. "You'll," he begins again, hoarse, "you'll need a bacta-patch for that."

"It's fine," she shrugs, "I've had worse." She sucks at the cut and soothes its sting with her tongue. Is it the blood's coppery slime or the light of reverent worship in Kylo's eyes making her stomach churn?

"I know. Come with me anyway."

Gods and devils damn her, but she does.

"You're losing control," he takes out a med kit and rummages through it. Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, searching for a bandage for a desert orphan. What the First Order would think of him if they saw him now!

"Beat you, didn't I?"

"In our eighth battle. You're stronger than this."

She laughs. "Maybe I'm just letting you catch up. And we're only sparring—who says I'm trying to win?"

He doesn't bother countering her. He opens the patch and dips his finger into the bacta, hesitating just an instant before touching it to her cut.

It stings like a hornet. Rey focuses on pain and tries to exclude everything else. She doesn't succeed.

"That's enough," she says, throat dry. She has barely enough breath for words. "Get off me."

Kylo doesn't move, transfixed by the sight of his finger resting gently on her lips' petal-soft skin.

When she shoves him backward, the flesh tears again.

"I said _get off_ ," she snarls, stalking past him, into the cargo bay, into her quarters. The heavy door seals behind her and she locks it with her own personal code...her own code! It keeps him out, but he's there nonetheless. He's there because he's with her, in her, and she can't—

Rey tries not to cry. On Jakku, tears were a liability; tears meant dehydration and possibly death. She tries to remember that fear, tries to use it to hold back the flood behind her eyes, but it's no use. On her knees, she hugs herself and sobs. Her tears sparkle in the brilliant light of streaming stars.

It's all going wrong. What's worse is he's not doing it; he's not doing anything at all.

He's not tempting her. She's falling.


	17. XVII

**XVII**

A very Happy New Year to all my readers!

* * *

Kylo has planned the moment of their arrival down to its last minute detail. How many battalions of stormtroopers, the precise number from each rank of officers. The detachment of three women—not officers, but elegant maids recruited from the entourages of princesses and ambassadors—waiting to attend Rey. The hanger in which they land is bare of other ships but teeming with a fine sample of the First Order's might and quality, bodies like statues laid out in rigid, even columns.

It's a grand display, precise and powerful, one such as Snoke might have demanded for his own arrival. Kylo enjoys the spectacle, but not for itself; his dead master taught him illusion's power, drama's efficacy. He is the Supreme Leader; his subjects will honor him as such.

As they will honor Rey. She may not allow him to give her a title, scorning the idea with a jerk of her sharp chin, but Kylo will have her respected as the Empress she is, even now, becoming.

They stand side-by-side, waiting for the hanger doors to swing open in a cloud of warm steam. They've planned this down to the last inch; how they will walk, who will speak first, what they will say. Rey's smooth forehead is puckered and her lips work against each other; she's coaching herself through it one last time.

Kylo won't have a moment to look at her again for hours, not as he wants to, with eyes able to linger on her deep eyes and wide, expressive features. Even after two weeks of feasting on her—of touches, conversations, and kisses they have each been as desperate to give as receive—he's still as thirsty for her as a man crawling through the desert.

A single glance leaves his throat is dry and tongue swollen.

One day, he will have her in silk and jewels, a dress cut so that slices of her skin gleam through. Red will suit her, or a blue clear and dark as the oceans of Kasperia. Today, she wears nothing so grand; a suit of gray, an outfit that mirrors his own, with a collar hugging her narrow neck and heavy quilted fabric that hugs everything else. The shape of her body is so clear she might as well be standing beside him naked.

A moth cocooned against the future, ready to emerge into flight.

"Stop staring," she hisses. "Kriff, are the doors stuck or something? Let's _go_."

Finally, their docking routine is complete. The _Revenge_ shudders as its squat feet find purchase on the hangar's deck, and its engine purrs with feline impatience at being tethered to the ground once more. The bay doors shudder, unlatch, and swing wide.

At the same instant, Kylo and Rey step forward.

They have not made it to the ground before a barked order sweeps through the cold, quiet air. As one, legions of stormtroopers turn on their heels and drop to one knee, a dull impact that rumbles, thunderous, through the hangar. Kylo watches Hux, but even he bows not one microsecond out of line. He has grown quiet adept in hiding his loathing for Kylo; a more foolish man would believe any plots against him had been abandoned.

Killing him will be a pleasure sweeter than honeywine.

Hux is, however, first on his feet.

"Supreme Leader. Lady Rey," he nods smartly to her, a harsh swallow the only outward sign of repulsion, "Welcome back. I think you will be pleased at what we have accomplished in your absence. Our maneuvers around Deltos captured several of the Resistance's refueling ships; already a third of the ore we lost at Psyllia has been reclaimed."

Kylo reaches for Rey, to remind her what they agreed on—that her silence now will reap benefits later—but he need not have worried. She's folded into herself, head bowed and eyes closed. Grief twists her face in a pained grimace as though an invisible hand is around her throat. He cannot tell if her pain is real or an act; she closed the bond this morning and has not let a whisper slip since.

"Very good, General. It seems you have the ability to win back my favor. Any prisoners?"

"Several dozen. Most have told us all they know and been sent to labor camps. Several await your...more skilled attentions. Unless perhaps the Lady Rey has your talent with interrogation?"

It's a cruel stab, accurate and devastating. Rey's pain explodes into a hot flare of anger. Kylo turns to head her off—he knows how fast she can be with a lightsaber—but she keeps control. There are other ways to make Hux pay.

Hux is the son of Empire patricians, raised to abhor dirt and disorder. As a child of unkindness and scorn, Rey knows how to spit with devastating accuracy.

The look on Hux's face as a gob of spittle slides down the side of his nose is almost more satisfying than Kylo's memory of Snoke's limp torso flopping wetly off his severed waist.

Rey follows with a curse so creative and foul Kylo has to look away from her; she blazes with passion so that he burns to take her there, on the freezing deck, with half the Order watching. His guts writhe with lust like a nest of serpents.

"Supreme Leader," Hux screeches, "I demand that you—"

Power shudders through the room. Kylo's voice is gentle, curious; he lays his power to either side of the General's throat in a solicitous, reassuring grasp.

"You demand what, Hux? What do you _demand_ from your Supreme Leader?"

Hux draws in a long, labored breath. "Nothing, my Lord. My apologies, Lady Rey. My sincerest apologies."

With a tilted head, Kylo presses on his shoulder. "I think you can do better than that."

Hux's knees crack against the deck and his head bows to the tip of Rey's boot.


	18. XVIII

**XVIII**

 **Note:** This chapter earns an M rating.

* * *

They have adjoining rooms. Attempts on their lives will likely come thick and fast; Kylo has never been as beloved as Hux, and his single-minded focus on Rey has done little to endear him to the First Order's fanatical base. He can count on the loyalty of his Knights, and a few others in sensitive positions—security and communications, mostly—that he's bribed or bought outright.

So it is purely sensible that they share a wall, and that wall be bridged by a door. Logical, even.

What Kylo never considered was how it would feel to be on one side of a wall, knowing Rey is on the other. After an hour trying to soothe his prowling mind and aching muscles while imagining Rey exploring her new chambers—perhaps using the 'fresher or trying on some of the clothes he provided for her—Kylo realizes he's made a terrible mistake, logic be damned.

It's torture.

He uses the 'fresher, examining fresh bruises dull as plums, wide around as her fists. His scar flushes red in the white, rising steam. He examines the marks she's put on his body and his lips thin to a harsh, dark line that trembles with the effort of holding in a call. He can't call for her; its a line she's drawn between them, drawn and underlined and gashed.

But it's torture. Every muscle is taut, leaping at every sensation. Cool air drifting over his stomach; droplets of water shaking free from his shaggy hair and dripping down his shoulders. Dripping onto something else. He's hard, he's been hard for what feels like days. So close, and no closer.

Rey called him a monster. Does still, when she's angry, though she looks immediately ashamed for her feeble lie. She doesn't know; she can't know. If he were a monster, that door would be no barrier at all. If he could only drop to all fours, sprout fur and claws, _be_ an animal as he can't be a man, he'd pin her beneath him, sink his teeth into her shoulder, and—

Kylo wraps one fist around the base of his cock and squeezes, moaning as though the pleasure's a mortal wound. His guts twist and writhe, sensation sparking at the base of his spine, down his legs, to his toes. He sinks his teeth down hard into the soft skin of his inner cheek because his tongue wants to whisper her name like a prayer, chant it like a mantra, hear it echo off the walls like the dull ring of a temple bell drifting through dawn mist.

 _Rey, Rey, Rey_.

For a long moment, he's still. One hand braced against the 'fresher wall, shivering as water trickles between his thighs and down his back. The other hand is locked in place, desperate to move yet hobbled by some notion of chivalry. He shouldn't. She'll know.

The bathroom's automatic fan switches on, gusting steam into its vents. In the frigid rush of air, Kylo flinches; his hand slides on his cock and he almost drops to his knees. It's so good, it's _so good_ , and it's been so long...

Tentatively, Kylo squeezes. Slides. There's enough moisture on his palm to make the glide smooth, effortless. He doesn't feel her, not even a murmur. His grip grows more confident, more sure. He rolls his hips into the motion and his lips fall apart, a gasp escaping, fogging into the air.

He tries to keep his thoughts hazy, indefinite, but pretending not to yearn for Rey is a farce even _he_ , with all his experience playacting, can't sustain.

She had been so perfect, so poised. Even in her fury, there was a diamond of serenity within that tethered all emotion to one point. She might have thrown herself on Hux, beaten his skull to jagged pulp with her bare fists. She didn't. Instead, she ruined him another way; made him ridiculous, dirtied him.

Kylo groans, spreading his legs. Perfect, stars above, she was perfect.

And she is on the other side of a wall. After months of searching, craving...even after two weeks on the same ship with her, he can't believe she's here. It's a miracle, _she's_ a miracle.

He's never believed he'd get one, not really. Not when his parents told him he would guide the galaxy one day, not when his uncle remarked he'd be the most powerful Jedi in generations, not when Snoke promised him he would rule with a dark crown more glorious even than Darth Vader's. Kylo heard these promises and reached for them with eager hands. And in reaching, he failed and failed again.

Unworthy of the praise, unworthy of the promises. Weak and flawed, an occluded gem. Worthless.

Cold shame congeals in his gut. He shouldn't be doing this and thinking of her, but his hand's fevered stroking sends golden sparks dancing across his skin and he can't stop. Even with just a ghost of her with him, warming him, he feels whole. Happy.

Is it happiness? It's hard to remember, but he thinks so. His nerve ends are sparkling like shooting stars, there's a buoyant lightness in his heart, and in his mind's eye Rey smiles and laughs and reaches across a table and sighs into his mouth and these aren't delusions or dreams or even visions they're real they're real and—

He cries out against the smooth tiles when he comes, cries again and again until his throat aches, pressing his forehead into his straining hand when the spasms finally stop. His toes ache with the effort of keeping his shaking body upright, but after a moment strength flows back to him, accompanied by a satisfied, tired peace.

That night, he manages to find sleep before tomorrow's dreads and demons find him.

* * *

 **Note:** Guys, I know this goes without saying, but fic writers live off reviews. If you've been enjoying this story, do me a huge favor and leave a comment. I'd appreciate it.


	19. XIX

**XIX**

 **Note:** Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the feedback! You guys are the best!

* * *

 _we have your location standby_

That's the last communiqué the Resistance sent, sounded beat by beat on her bones through the implant above her elbow. Five words isn't a lot to balance her future on, but as a progression of days slowly rounds out a week, Rey is glad Leia hasn't interceded yet.

For one thing, she and Kylo haven't worked out when and where will be best to strike to get rid of all four Grand Marshals. There are a staggering number of factors involved; method, munitions, transport, secrecy…time is the only thing that can solve this puzzle, and they need more of it. So Rey accepts her situation. She's even glad to wake in the morning and find herself still on the _Primacy_. Glad for the galaxy's sake. For Kylo's sake. And even, if she's being honest, for her own too.

It's shocking, so surprising she sometimes finds herself dizzy with it, but they're working well together.

She feels the hard knob of her implant with idle fingers.

"What's wrong?" Kylo looks up from under a shock of his dark hair.

"Nothing. Itchy," she shrugs, forcing her hand back down to the table. She bends back over the map with him, shoulder-to-shoulder.

"So Mylar will be in the Toldian system, coordinating the shipping routes along the Denorios Belt," her finger traces a path of stars, "We'll have a good approach on him—that asteroid field's dense—but if we don't get him on the first try—"

"He'll have time to alert Abaloe. And she commands enough firepower to rip the _Primacy_ to shreds," Kylo finishes for her, head dropping back towards the map. He wets dry lips and shakes his head. "That will take care of Hux, but we'll go too. One mistake and the whole thing falls apart."

Rey sits back, folds her hands. "We need to split up."

"No," he bites out; she's raised this point before.

"Why?" this has been their one sticking point, and Rey's tired of trying to pull herself free of it.

"Us staying together once everything starts is silly, and I think you know it's silly too! You keep insisting we can't trust anyone, that we don't have many resources, but then you keep us together! If you're worried about me," she chases Kylo's shifting eyes, "Don't be. I believe killing these people makes the galaxy better. I wouldn't use it as an excuse to abandon you."

"I know that," he murmurs.

"Then what is it?"

His lips work. "If it goes wrong and I'm with you, I can make sure you escape. If I'm not—Rey," he doesn't try to touch her often, not even since she's given him tacit, unspoken permission. It's odd how he can be so reticent when half the time Rey's head is buzzing, her senses filled with his proximity. When his fingers rest on the back of her wrist, it's still a new enough sensation to send a tickling thrill through Rey's heart, like touching a wire carrying a fragile electrical current.

"All this is my responsibility. If you—if you were hurt because of me," his voice has sunk and faded and he doesn't finish. His forefinger traces the knuckle of bone above her wrist, the faint, faint scars underneath it.

It takes Rey a few moments to muster a breath. "I agreed to help you. I came back."

"Only because I threatened Chewie."

There's shame there, legitimate shame. Rey's air whooshes out like he's punched her. She's never heard him express shame, not for anything, not unless his actions hurt _her._ Even his confession that he should have killed Snoke and not Han was just admitting a mistake, not apologizing for a crime.

He's barely touching her now, fingertips cold on her bones. In another second, he'll be gone.

Rey catches him. "I would have come."

"Not if I hadn't threatened him."

He's lost to his guilt, not listening to her. For once, he's not hanging on her words, listening for her thoughts. It's liberating and strange and Rey faces an unpleasant truth, chilling as ocean foam dashed in her face, that she doesn't like it.

"Ben," she presses his hand between both of hers. "I _wanted_ to come."


	20. XX

**XX**

Her confession slithers into the air between them like afterbirth, messy and ill-timed, an admission of her weakness, soft inside her as rot. Her truth is not liberating, not refreshing; it's terrifying, nauseating. She's been so careful to protect herself thus far, and at one sign of remorse from Kylo, she's laid herself bare.

Impulsive. Impatient. _Stupid._ But there's no recalling her words. All the power is his now, and she must wait to see what he'll do with it.

He moves as slowly and inevitably as a glacier. His hand, still between hers, rolls within her grip. In a moment, he has her wrists locked together in one massive palm. Her pulse leaps; from fear, from a reflection of the fierce lightning desire she feels from him, Rey can't tell.

"Truly?" he breathes, searching her eyes, abandoning the Force even though it would scream the truth to him.

Rey draws in a breath that feels like a sob. "Yes," she says, and then he kisses her.

They've done this before, but oh, _oh_ , somehow it's different now. His lips are unspeakably soft against hers, skin so delicate she can only feel it as heat, as pressure. It's chaste at first, restrained, but his grip trembles on her wrist and Rey opens her mouth with a moan. She doesn't want gentle or restrained, she wants him to make her pay for this weakness, make her regret how far she's fallen to him. Take advantage, push her, justify her in pushing back. She catches his bottom lip between her teeth and bites, tugs it like a rat.

His hands are at her neck, long fingers cradling the back of her head, fingertips buried in the loose mass of her hair. He pulls her back—already his mouth is swollen red like a ripe berry—but there's no vengeance in his eyes. Despite the dark shadows beneath them, they shine out, starry-bright.

He looks at her like—like—

"Don't," she whispers.

"Don't what?"

"I'm not—" words stick in her throat, catch on her tongue. "Don't look at me like that."

He doesn't blink, doesn't flinch. "I have to."

Rey could get free. She should. It's too much, looking at him with the truth bare and naked between them. She's a fly caught in a web, a jewel in a dragon's hoard, a precious thing in the hands of someone who—who loves her.

Oh. Doubt and mistrust and fear fall from Rey's eyes, and she sees his truth at last. He really does love her.

"Yes," he says, still unblinking, " _Yes_."

She doesn't want him to let her go. Not really. But she shifts backward all the same.

"I—" before, when they kissed, it was a power play, a game, a vicious consolation in a miserable situation. She'd thought it was the same for him. "I can't do this. I don't—"

"You don't love me," he finishes when her words fade. "I know." He lets her escape, though she doesn't go far. His hands drop in the empty space between them. "But you will."

Once she might have spat in his face for even suggesting something so insulting. But with her brain abuzz and her blood smoldering and a slick wetness hot between her thighs, Rey can't confidently deny it. Impossibility has become a kiss away from reality. If he touches her again...

She used to know herself. Inside and out, a puzzle easy to solve as an AT-AT's motivator. Simple parts put together in a logical order.

Now, she has no idea what she'll do. Nor yet what she wants _him_ to do.

He takes her silence as a challenge. There's a hint of smirk at the right corner of his mouth, there and gone, a flash quicker than a resshyk serpent. He expects her to contradict him. "You will. I can wait."

When he slides back from her to a demure distance and turns his gaze towards the map displayed on the table, Rey crosses her arms, hugging herself, trying to ignore the insistent thrum in her body wailing at the loss of his warmth. His hands in her hair. His gaze, taking her in with worshipful reverence, like...like she's a miracle.

Like she's _his_ miracle.

Rey shakes herself, digging her fingers hard into the implant above her elbow, grinding it against her bone until it hurts. _That's real_ , she tells herself, pressing so her nerve endings scream for mercy, _that pain._ That's _what you need to focus on._

She can do this, she can focus...just not right then.

"I think I'll turn in," she stands, stumbles away from the bench that's suddenly longer than she remembers. "Training tomorrow. Long day."

He nods. The quirk of his mouth is more pronounced this time. But at her clear discomfort, it fades.

"Rey,"

It halts her retreat. For an instant, she considers not turning, just opening the door and sliding out like a thief in the night.

She doesn't. She turns.

"I can forget it. If you want me to."

Her heart swells, throat tightens until tears of pain, of relief, of unspeakable sorrow gather at the corners of her eyes. Kylo is willing to lay this sacrifice on her altar. Because it's made her uncomfortable. Because it has changed the dynamic between them, stretched it until it can no longer accommodate the patterns they fit before.

"No," she croaks at last. "Don't. It's the truth."

Then, coward that she is, she whirls and dives through the door that separates them.


	21. XXI

**XXI**

He moves quickly for such a large man. A thick pillar of muscle and heavy bone, he's nevertheless light on his feet, sometimes delicate as a soap bubble wafting on air currents. Ballah feints right, lunges left, saber-staff coming within millimeters of Kylo's knee. A warning cry rises in Rey's throat and catches on her tongue because he's already leaping away, turning in midair to land in a crouch, exploding forward in a rush that catches the smaller Knight off-guard.

There's a flurry of black robes, a heavy grunt as Ballah hits the deck, and the fight is over.

She folds her arms so she can't clap, but it's a close thing. His speed, grace, power…she's fought with him and _with_ him, but each time his skill catches her short. Breathless. Still, she can't stop her heart from heaving a great sigh of relief before relaxing in her chest. Her calm clashes with Kylo's elation; it was a hard fight and he won it well. He stands tall, rolling cramped shoulders in a way that accentuates his ludicrous biceps.

He's proud of his victory, preening because she was there to see it. Rey swallows with a tongue suddenly dry and startles when her sparring partner speaks.

"Are you ready?" Meela, her voice harshly modulated by the helmet she wears, twirls her saber, hulking and heavy as a machete. The sole woman of the Knights of Ren, she's fierce and thirsty for battle, restless in action and at rest. Her feet slide across the floor, taking up the first in a form Rey now knows to identify as Djem So. For an aggressive woman, she guards herself like a lioness and bullies the Force to be her shield.

The saber Rey has used since boarding the _Revenge_ is uncomfortably familiar in her hands, purring catlike to life, licking its lips for the fight to come. Its red light spills over Rey's face like a rush of blood, of heat, of vengeance.

She begins in Shii-Cho, the only form she really knows, instantly outclassed by Meela's superior strength. Hammered again and again by her opponent, driven to the edge of the arena, Rey blocks and pushes and searches for an opening.

Kylo's watching. Oh, he may _look_ like he's taking a drink or wiping down his sweaty shoulders, but he's watching her. Dark eyes tracking every shift of her feet, every clash of their sabers. When Rey twirls out of a tight spot, he smiles in that shy, crooked way of his. When Meela presses, his brow knits as though he's worried Meela might actually hurt her. It's ridiculous; this is just a—

A red line of agony slices across her thigh; Rey gasps with pain and falls back, stumbling across the training field.

"Pay attention," Meela stalks after her, not bothering with the flourishes the other Knights affect. She's cold, calm, and deadly intent. A cold trickle of fear drizzles down Rey's throat. Even if she doesn't really intend to hurt her, one slip of that saber is all it would take.

"Fine," Rey snarls, reaching for rage to supplement her fear. _Forget forms_ , she tells herself, _when did you ever need them?_

Careless, free, Rey lunges forward. She knows enough now not to use her staff forms, but her speed, agility, and flexibility all suit her well.

Meela's fast too, but her armor weighs her down. Rey leaps over a slash aimed for her knees and stabs down with her blade; Meela meets it with her saber but the downward momentum drives her to her knees. She thrashes out with a booted foot that catches Rey below her wounded thigh; she yells and traps Meela's arm in a lock-tight grip.

Hold, twist, relentless as a feral dog. She'll give, she'll drop the saber, or Rey will break her arm. She can feel it, the bones so delicate, like any human's—is Meela human? Rey's never seen her face—and Rey knows just how much force it takes to break bone. Memories of her own arm giving way with a wet, tearing snap, of a trader's cheekbone caving into his own face at the end of her staff, flood her with shame.

It makes her stronger.

Meela throws her whole body backwards, slamming Rey to the floor, hip jammed against her throat. Rey doesn't give, not for an instant. The saber falls atop them, almost burning off Rey's nose; there's a nauseating stench of burnt hair and melting durasteel as it catches between her head and Meela's helmet.

"Enough!" Kylo's voice reaches them dimly. They're drowning together at the bottom of a red-hot sea of emotion, neither willing nor able to hear.

"I said enough!" he hauls her upright, tossing her so she skids along the floor. Meela lies where she fell, still clutching her saber, letting it scorch a gash in the deck.

The room is silent save for the crackling scatter of sparking saber on cold metal.

Rey pushes upright on arms weak as rubber and sprints from the room.


	22. XXII

**XXII**

Her room is sealed. It ought to be, he reminds himself, trying not to feel a twisting pang somewhere deep within. No one should be allowed to just waltz into her chambers, not even the few they trust. But she almost never activates the full shut-out that invalidates his personal code as well. Kylo punches it in twice before he realizes that no, it isn't a mistake. She doesn't want him near. The thought of him is impossible for her to bear.

He stands outside the door, arm raised, hand resting softly on the access panel. As though he could feel her through the thick durasteel door. As though he could melt through solid metal and touch her. Comfort her.

The flash of fear—no, not fear, it was too intense to be simple fear; he's seen Rey afraid—but _horror_ , absolute soul-stricken, repulsed terror, on her face as she ran from the room...it's frozen in his eyes. Like stained-glass plate windows in old temples, it's an image of one pure emotion, rendered in bright, bold shades, strong enough to hurt the eyes.

He should move. Their wing of the _Primacy_ is private, guarded at all entrances by men of relative trustworthiness, but anyone could come along and see him. See him standing there like a foolish, love-struck boy. The fearsome Kylo Ren, mooning outside a girl's door, too afraid to ring the chime in case she refuses to see him. The Supreme Leader, heir presumptive to the galaxy, unable to act in case his actions hurts the woman he adores.

In the end, it's not love that makes him knock. It would be a nice fiction, one he might practice telling himself later. But no, he finally touches the intercom button because he's afraid. Afraid that her fear might pull her away from him. She's fled from him before.

There's no answer, only a quiet, pained huffing like a great beast nursing a fatal wound. A wet, snuffling sound. She's crying.

"Rey? Open the door."

No answer. The moments stretch between them.

Then, "Go away."

He lowers his voice, allows himself the weakness of pleading. "Are you all right?"

A gurgling chuckle, "No."

"Rey," he reaches for gentleness, the kind of gentleness she showed him, reaching to touch his hand from across the stars, "Please. Let me in."

Silence. A soft rustle of sheets, a quiet padding across the floor, and then the door shoots open.

He swallows his shock. She looks more devastated than he's ever known her, more heartbroken even than when the Force had confronted her with her utter loneliness and isolation. Her hair is loose and tangled around her face, strands of it stuck to her flushed, damp cheeks. Her eyes, so large and clear, are red and half-shut, to stem a waterfall of tears. Rey takes one look at his face and her whole body heaves with a sob. A sob that she won't give him.

She turns around and walks away. He takes her unspoken invitation and follows.

Her mammoth bed is rumpled, blankets and pillows shored up in feeble defense, a den that can't protect against Rey's inner sickness. But it comforts her. She dives between the sheets, lumps them around her, stifles her face in a pillow. He's inside, but he's no closer than he was just a minute ago. There's a void between them, icy and dark, and she won't let him bridge it. She won't reach out. What he feels from her is the bleed she can't control, ragged edges of shame and fear and catastrophic loneliness. A tangle of emotions that has swollen into a festering pustule.

Carefully, he sits on the edge of the bed. She moves her feet aside; perhaps so he can, perhaps so no part of his body will touch hers.

He doesn't know how to begin.

"Meela's fine. She's had far worse. We all have. You didn't hurt her."

A restless jerk is his answer; Rey wraps one hand around her elbow and digs two fingers down to the bone. It's a gesture he's seen her make countless times, that self-soothing, reassuring stroke of her sub-dermal comline. He wonders if she really expected that secret to staysecret. He wonders how many times she's used it, begging the Resistance to come rescue her.

His lips thin, grim and relentless as a death's-head. Let them try.

"You don't need to be afraid. The Dark side, the Light...it's all an illusion. What matters is power. Power and resolve."

She surfaces with a gasp, her eyes wide, shimmering. "Is that what you really think? I almost broke her _arm_. In a _sparring match_. I didn't do it because she was trying to kill me, I did it because I wanted to win, and that's all I was thinking about!"

Her tear-soaked voice is gaining strength, volume. Rage builds, crowding out terror, steeped in it nonetheless. She shoves back from him, fingers digging so deeply into her arm a red teardrop of blood seeps from beneath her nails. As if that could lance the source of her pain.

"You lost control," he says, glad she hasn't seen any of _his_ rages, "it's natural. What isn't natural is feeling shame for your emotions. You can master them. You have."

"I don't want to control th—I wanted to _kill_ her! That's not natural! That isn't right! You know that," she pauses, swallows. When she blinks, two tears slide down her cheeks, dripping onto her tunic. "Don't you?"

It's Skywalker's philosophy spilling from her lips. Reductive. Exclusionary. Snoke was a terrible master, but at least he encouraged Kylo to use all his resources, strain to the very edges of his instinct. He sees Rey's potential—his visions are so strong now, so vivid—but she must move beyond this self-doubt.

"No."

She blinks again. "No?"

"No."

Her mouth falls open, one millimeter at a time. It's a speeder crash in slow motion.

Then she locks it tight.

"Get out."

"Rey—"

She won't hear him. "Get out."


	23. XXIII

**XXIII**

On the third day, Rey emerges from her room. Clean, clear-eyed. Her face so blank it might as well be a leather mask. She's practiced this. This filter between herself and the world. Her features are so flat, her expressions so restrained, Rey almost doesn't recognize herself in the dull, metallic reflection of the bulkheads.

She opens her door like rolling back a boulder, stepping tentatively back into the world. The corridor is empty, silent, save for the constant belly-deep groaning of metal reacting to the temperature stresses of lightspeed. They're moving again. They've been hopping in fits and bursts around the galaxy, but where they're bound she has no idea.

She hasn't spoken to Kylo since—

Thoughts of him are like putting pressure on a rotten tooth. She shies away from it and walks, feet mechanically tracing a path towards their training gym. Each step is like slogging through knee-deep water, rising deeper every minute. Each step drags her closer to drowning.

Rey stops, heart pounding. She leans against the wall, eyes falling shut, feeling her blood surge through her veins. Her breath rasps shallowly through a throat so tender it hurts.

There's a gossamer line between control and chaos, and she doesn't know where it lies. Any moment she could snap that thread and plunge into insanity, losing herself again and again until there isn't any _Rey_ anymore, just a dark power animating her body. Somehow, to her bones, she knows this is how Kylo began. From a corrupted ruin of Ben Solo.

She can't do this. She can't take another step. Turning, Rey scuttles back to her room and slams the door behind her, locking it with a swipe of her sweaty palm. In the enclosed darkness, the fear shrinks back, easier to control. Close your eyes and everything goes away. Let the shadows swallow her, let time wither her bones.

"You can't hide forever, Rey."

She opens her eyes. The room fills suddenly with light, pale and blue, waving in organic undulations across the ceiling and floor, like a bubble of water illuminated from within by a candle. At the center of this light, a figure resolves. Short, but upright. Old, but free of life's burdens. A pair of blue eyes that smile on her, set in a familiar nest of wrinkles.

"Master Luke," she breathes, "You're—no. You're dead, aren't you?"

"Yes. And no. It's funny," he's so relaxed, so free, there's a boyish tilt to his head and his smile! "The Jedi were right all along. 'Death, but the Force'."

"So you're back! You can still…" _save us, save me_ , "help us?"

"Yes. And no," he steps forward and emotion spills from him. Loving compassion, warm and sweet as wine; chased by a bitter dregs of regret. "I'm sorry. I can advise, but only the living can help the living."

Is she alive? It's been hard to feel that way, lately.

Questions crowd on her tongue by the dozens, by the hundreds. Yet what spills from her lips is, "I can't do this. I can't."

He doesn't ask for details. What is in her heart, he knows. He steps closer until Rey screws her eyes shut against his blinding light. When he puts his hand on her shoulder, there's no pressure. Just a sensation, strong as summer lightning illuminating low-slung clouds, of utter _wholeness_. Completion. Fulfillment. It runs from where he touches her and crackles outward, suffusing her being until she can't feel her bones or skin or breath. She just _is_.

She gasps. When she opens her eyes, tears slide down her cheeks. "That's the Force?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

It's so large, so infinite, that what she wants to say is feeble in comparison, a statement so obvious she stammers. "It's not—there are no sides."

"No."

"It's all wrong, then," she says, stepping back, breaking away from Luke's unbearable intensity. Distilling back into her own skin is painful. "Why didn't anyone tell us?"

Luke's light fades. He is a blue phantom, flickering at the edges like a faulty holo.

"Many who go into the Force don't come back. They can't. It's peace, Rey, peace beyond anything I could tell you," that smile again. She's never seen him smile like that before. "When I died, I thought I would come back to you right away. But there were so many people to find, so much to be felt and thought and shared…I can't blame anyone who never returns. Watching this broken world is—

"But those who do return are ashamed of who they used to be, what they used to teach. The Jedi and Sith have espoused a philosophy that leads to destruction. This side against that. When, in truth, the universe cannot exist without—"

"Balance," Rey finishes. "But you told me that! You told me about the balance!"

"I did. So why are you afraid that your rage will plunge you immediately into the Dark?"

She flinches. She can still feel Meela's bone under her straining hands.

"I've fought all my life," she whispers. "For food, tools, salvage rights…but I never hated anyone before. Not really. We were all struggling to survive, and whoever won, won. But Meela, the Knights," she steals a glance at Luke's calm face and adds, "Kylo. I'm afraid of them. I hate them. And they hate me."

"Amazing," Luke says, "You were doing so well."

She sneers. "I'm so glad you find this so amusing. No comedians in your perfect, peaceful heaven?" Her words are so sour they curdle in her mouth.

"I'm sorry. But if you have to tell lies, try not to make them so obvious."

"They're not lies!"

"They are," he cuts through her indignation with a gesture, "You don't hate them. No more than you hated all the people you fought on Jakku. Fights are physical manifestations of conflicting ideals. You are not afraid of _them_ , only afraid of what they're saying. The paths they're walking. You didn't fear junkers or traders because they were part of your world. You understood them.

"But you're part of a larger world now. You'll have to adapt."

"Adapt? You mean accept what they're doing, agree with it?"

"No," his lips twitch but he keeps himself from smiling. Patiently, "Adapt your understanding. _Why_ do Meela and the Knights follow Ben? What does he offer them? What vision is he following? Knowledge and understanding, Rey. Connection. These are the true gifts of the Force."

"I don't _want_ to understand them. Who cares why they're doing what they're doing? They're evil!"

"Perhaps. But if evil is a symptom of ignorance, than understanding can lead to a cure."

"I don't care," she turns away, "I don't want to help them. They don't deserve to come back from what they've done. Not any of them."

"Ben hurt you," he speaks to her unyielding back, "but that doesn't mean you were wrong to try to help him. I was wrong to stop you. You are so naturally compassionate; that's a gift, not a liability. You couldn't have known it, but so was I, once."

"I know the legend. How you turned Darth Vader against the emperor. How he died to save you. But that's just a story."

"It became a story. But it began as truth. For an instant, the galaxy balanced on a single man's decision. And he chose the life of his son over an empire of power. Would he have done the same had I faced him down and declared that he was a bastion of evil and didn't deserve even the chance to undo his legacy?"

"I offered that," she whispered, a scared, secret truth crawling wormlike out from her heart, "I offered that chance. And he didn't listen."

"He listened so much that he killed his own master. It was the first step on a path he hadn't walked in decades. Are you surprised he stumbled?"

Rey whirls around. "So it was my job to hold his hand? I _told_ him what he should do. He wouldn't even stop the cannons firing on his mother!"

Rey can't forget, mustn't forget, how it felt to stand there and watch ships bursting nova when the man who could stop it, the man she had crossed a galaxy to save, stood by and did nothing. She _had_ forgotten, all the same. It's another of her failures, another of her crimes.

"No. It wasn't," Luke's face loses some of its peaceful beatitude; he, too, remembers that Kylo nearly stamped out the last of his family. "You tried to stop him, and that was right. But you still feel compassion for him; enough to act on it, and return. So what's holding you back now?"

"He told me…" another secret, one she desperately tries to hold it, "He hasn't changed. He doesn't see Light or Dark. Just power. And he wants that power."

"Why?"

"I don't know! To—to keep children from—he's lying! He can't do it, he can't make anything better!"

Her breath is coming hard again, so fast she feels dizzy. The galaxy spins on its axis and for an instant she can feel its terrifying speed and power. She's turned in so many knots that she just wants to dig her fingers into her skull and tear herself in two. That, at least, would end it. End all of it. And maybe then she'll find peace.

She doesn't care about looking strong anymore. She slides to the floor in a boneless heap, burying her face in her knees. Her damp skin sticks to her heavy trousers, staining the gray wool.

She mutters into her knees. "If I believe him, and he's lying, it's not just me he'll hurt. It's everyone. And if he's lying, then I'll have to—to stop him. To kill him."

Luke doesn't move so much as he appears beside her, legs gangly from where they stick out underneath his robe. It's ludicrous, a being of pure mind and energy sitting like that, but Rey can't laugh. She's too close to sobbing.

"You don't want to kill him."

"No," it's her greatest confession, her darkest secret. "I want to bring him home. After _everything_ ," her voice breaks, torn off ragged as an amputation, "I still want the future I saw."

* * *

 **Note:** In which I articulate some of my own thoughts re: arguments frequently had in this fandom. Please, if you enjoyed or have a different view, leave a comment. I live off them; life is very stressful right now.


	24. XXIV

**XXIV**

 **Note:** Thank you all for your kind notes. Life is rough right now, but I hope to get out at least one update to this story each week. Trigger warning for this chapter: **mild** **self-harm.** If this content will upset you, _please_ skip it.

* * *

He lies in the dark and lets it consume him. Bite by bite. Little nibbles, flaking away into an empty, endless maw. It's a familiar sensation, one he's long been accustomed to. However much he's given to the shadows, however much they've taken, somehow there's always more to lose. Always more to sacrifice. Kylo's amazed, in a numb sort of way, that there's any of him left at all.

The pain is everywhere. Internal and external. Beating against his skin, welling in every vein. He's drowning in an ocean of agony, sucking great gasps of it into lungs full to bursting.

Yet he walks. He talks. He dons the mask of Supreme Leader and puts on a show. It fools no one; Hux knows he's not really there. But it's enough to convince them that Kylo Ren is not yet gutted enough to be killed without a fight. And that Rey is still under his protection. The status quo has been preserved. Enough for appearances, anyway.

Kylo drags his nails over his skin. They're broken, jagged, torn off in the trainings he forces himself to endure, hours of them each day. Rey hasn't joined them in four days; he's put in thirty-eight hours on the mats without her. Even Meela is beginning to pull her punches. His bruises are starting to heal, tired flesh knitting together despite himself.

He digs his thumb into a soft, spreading bloom above his elbow. The pain is dull and sweet, familiar, comforting. Harder. He gasps. All too soon, his flesh numbs to the sensation.

A knotted rope of bruises across his sternum takes his fingers next; index, middle, and ring fingers pressing hard. Rotten flesh parts like a peach. Down to the bone. The same bone that sings a sharp harmony of hurt, loud and bright enough to cut through the darkness. Light up the shadows. It too, fades too quickly.

Nails again, connecting bruises with a thin red chain. The only jewelry he wears, the only decorations he affects. Scars. Cuts. Breaks. Mementos of pain that remind him of a past that is ever-present. Or should have reminded him. He forgot. Rey made him forget. And now that she's gone, he must remind himself again.

One of his fresh cuts starts to bleed. The relief is strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. Finally, finally, a vent. A crack. An outlet. Some agony leeches out in a hot, slow pulse of blood.

It's sticky on his fingers.

Then, the door chime. His mouth opens to bark an order—he needs nothing, _wants_ nothing—but his voice dies as he realizes the sound is from the door between their chambers.

No. He imagined it. His body is rigid as a corpse, waiting. Fighting the dream, the insanity that's stealing over him. If he lets himself believe this, even for an instant—

It rings again.

Then, a voice. Hesitant. Muffled. It speaks his name. His _true_ name.

"Ben?"

The door is open before he has any sensation of motion. She's there. She's there. Not evaporated, not gone, still there. He's not sure what he feels. Rage, despair, shame so strong it corrodes. Gratitude that burns his scars like brandy on an open wound. Too much to process; his feelings roll from him to her like a massive shifting tide pulled by some gargantuan moon.

It isn't until Rey's eyes drop from his face and roam his patched, sore, broken skin that Kylo knows he should have at least tried to hide this from her. But would it have mattered? Her eyes, stunned and pitiful, leap to his. Her mind plunges inward, delving, prying. He is too battered to shield anything from her, even had he never promised her not to try.

Her hand reaches up.

"Don't—" but it's too late. Her fingers have already tasted his blood. They're shaking; a vermillion stain smears across his chest, like she's torn him open. Maybe she has.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and it's a mirage in the desert. He's dreaming; he has to be. She tries once more to speak but her voice gutters out in a breathy sigh that trembles too.

They're silent. Two statues, poised against each other, connected at five fragile points. Her fingers burn, warmed by her blood and his.

Rey blinks and tears spill over her cheeks. She doesn't speak; perhaps she can't. What she does, though, is more precious by far.

Kylo has been so accustomed to the wall between him and her that when she opens a chink in it, the spill of her emotions registers as yet another source of pain. Her pity; her compassion. Boundless as an ocean, bottomless deep and blue. He staggers backwards as though she's struck him. But distance between him doesn't help. She's pulling down her walls now, brick by brick, and physical distance is fast becoming immaterial. He feels her. Oh, he feels her in his marrow.

So pure and light and _good_. It sears him like the heart of a star.

"Don't—" he moans, but she's there. Soothing him.

"It's all right," does she speak, or does he just hear her? "It's all right. I'm here," she's touching him again, soft hair against his chest, head nestled beneath his chin. Like she's always been there, ear pressed to his heart.

"I'm right here."


	25. XXV

**XXV**

They're sitting together, shoulder-to-shoulder, long line of his leg pressed to the warmth of her thigh. Ankles overlapping. His cheek pillowed on the crown of her head. Her right hand tangled in his left. His thumb brushes the back of her hand, in long, sweeping strokes from wrist to knuckles. That strip of golden skin, faded now in the anemic artificial lights of the _Primacy_ , is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. Kylo sinks further into it, into _her_ , with every touch.

Entwined as their bodies are, their spirits are closer. What she feels, he feels, so swiftly and so completely that the barriers between them are gossamer fine as cobwebs. One swipe of her hands and she's parted them, wandering through the halls of his mind, peering into every shadowed corner, examining twisted remnants of old dreams and past glories that hang like tattered tapestries on mausoleum walls. Every part of him has been spoiled, ruined. By Snoke, by himself. He has no sacred places left.

He gave everything to the darkness. Rey was the first thing he ever tried to save for himself.

She touches his destruction with delicate fingers, bleeding her own loneliness, sorrow, and fear into him as she does. For the first time in years, instead of recoiling from pain and lashing out—or taking it and twisting it into agony, back onto its source—he lifts that burden from her shoulders and places it on his. He has nothing bright or pure to offer her, but he can do this.

 _You will never be lonely. When you despair, I will be with you. Don't be afraid._

 _I'm with you._

In assuming her burdens, his own lighten. How is that possible? Shouldn't her fear terrify him? Shouldn't her loneliness compound inside him? But they don't. In protecting her, he is strong. He is brave. He is at peace.

He is Ben.

Rey sniffles against his shoulder, burying her face into the warm hollow of his shoulder.

"I'm with you too," she murmurs. In their minds, she presses her hands to his. Takes _his_ guilt, his shame, his isolation. _It's all right_ , she says, leeching away everything inside him that hurts. Tears run into the seam of her smiling, phantom lips. _It's all right. Let me do this. Let me help you._

It's a struggle to step out of her way and let her lance the festering blisters of his soul, but he does. His hands shake as she explores the bottomless abattoir of his corroded heart, but there is no judgment in her mind as she brings her light into his shadows and burns everything away. It stings, viciously, like a tearing peel of a scab before it's ready to fall, and he feels himself bleed. But it's a cleansing rush of blood, something that disinfects, purifies.

Compassion. She's showing him compassion. In all his years of Jedi instruction, he never felt it like this. Love and understanding, free of condemnation and superiority. He sees her weaknesses; she knows his. They are not perfect, either of them. They are weak, flawed, frightened. Frail creatures. _Human_ creatures.

"How can you do this?" he whispers into her hair. "I've hurt—I've _killed—_ "

"I know," she replies, still sniffling. "But I see your regret. You're going to change. We're both going to change. We're going to figure out how to do better. Right?"

His throat contracts on a scoff. Change is something Snoke trained him to scorn—without thinking, without belief—as something both unnecessary and impossible.

 _No one truly changes_ , he would sneer, leering down on Kylo. _Did your parents change? Did General Organa make time for you, when she swore she would? Did Han Solo stop leaving you behind, even though you begged him not to? Did_ you _ever fulfill Skywalker's expectations, after failing time and again?_

 _Change is an illusion, my apprentice. I will only show you truths._

"Stop that," Rey's anger is for Snoke's memory, not Ben. "You know that's not true."

He wants to contradict her. Even as they're sharing minds, sharing souls, he clings to comfortable ideas, no matter how much they've cost him.

"Ben?" his name in her mouth is mesmerizing as a magical charm. She struggles upright in his arms and twists so their eyes meet. Hers are dazzled with tears, wide and earnest. Twin tourmalines of earthy-brown and moss-green.

"You can change. We both can. We both _will_."

There's so much to be said. So many ways to equivocate. But in that instant, nothing matters. Nothing but the knowledge that he must agree. Entangled, entwined, lost to love and to _her_ , he will never be the same again. All living things must eventually change...or die.

And for the first time in a very long time, Ben doesn't want to die.

"Yes," his voice is rusty, raw. "We will."


	26. XXVI

**XXVI**

"So…you're back. Gonna run away crying this time?"

Rey smirks. Meela's brusque attitude is bracing; it sets the tone for how the rest of the Knights will view her sudden reemergence. "I didn't cry. Did you?"

"Oh yeah," her drawl comes through the mask grainy and processed, but it's there, "buckets. Come on, desert rat," she draws her saber, swings it through the air with the very arm Rey nearly broke, so it hums like a nest of Espacian hornets, "Let's dance."

"No," Kylo's flat denial freezes them all, "We have more important things to discuss."

He's leading from a place of lofty confidence, and they all feel it. No one even offers an objection before sabers and weapons deactivate and everyone comes to stand before him in a rough half-circle. Rey stands among the Knights, closest to Ben's right hand. Present, supportive, but not intrusive. With one hand on her saber, just in case. The Knights followed Kylo away from Luke, but even that loyalty might have been strained during the recent power struggle after Snoke's murder.

The situation now is fluid, to say the least. Rey understands fluid; she's navigated sinking sands often enough. But she's never had to worry about anyone else before. Not like this. Rey is squared, hackles raised, ready to confront anyone if they raise a hand to Ben; it's no different from someone pulling a knife on her.

They wait for him to find his words.

"You already sense the truth of what happened. With us. With Snoke. I killed him."

The Knights, poised and still, turn to stone. Not a single breath betrays them as living creatures.

Then Nüe snorts. "Good."

Ballah says, "Dead _prick_ ," it's the closest translation Rey can imagine, though there are several possibilities far more vulgar, "I'd have done it myself."

"We all would have," Meela says. One hand reaches out as if to knock Kylo on the back, but the Knights don't go in for that sort of camaraderie. For the first time, as the Knights chortle and sneer over the truth of Snoke's demise, Rey wonders how different they all were, as children training together under Luke.

They can't have been evil, not outwardly, or Luke would have anticipated their betrayal. They must have been kids...just kids. Raucous, playful; studious, focused. Every shade and variation of child. Only Ballah is older than Ben. Nüe is younger than Rey by two standard years. The rest lie scattered between them. Teens, preteens, when they came to Snoke.

Had Snoke twisted them all as he twisted Ben? He must have. There's a breath of relief sighing through the room now; each Knight's body unraveling as though freed from a rack. Alaezar unmasks himself, tossing the casque aside. It thuds, hollow, on the deck. He shakes his roped, dark hair free and grins.

"I knew it. I knew the girl couldn't have done it."

"Hey," Rey chides, "I'm standing here. Right here."

"Hell, scavenger, you know he's right," Meela hasn't removed her helmet, nor has its blank face-plate moved a millimeter off Ben's. "You're good, but you're not that good. I didn't think _anybody_ was that good."

Her voice sinks to what passes for near superstitious awe, the whisper of an acolyte before the altar of a heretofore unknown god. All jokes sink away as the Knights focus again on Ben. Rey relaxes. They don't see him as a danger. He's their liberator.

"Why did you do it?" Lyarto speaks for the first time. "For _her_ ?"

"Yes," he answers, and Rey looks away even though he doesn't glance at her. He _feels_ at her, and that's enough. He feels gratitude, and determination, and love, love, _love_. She has to keep it off her face, how much it flusters and thrills her. The time for mooning and dreamy visions of holding hands under binary moons comes later. They're not off treacherous sands yet.

"I did it for her," Ben is still speaking, "And for me. And for you. Snoke was," he swallows, a twitch under one eye showing what a strain it is, speaking ill of his murdered master, "a monster. He took our faith and toyed with it. He never intended to change anything. He only wanted to be on the top of the wheel as it crushed everyone else.

"He lied, manipulated, _used_ us. It had to end."

Lyarto nods, his prehensile tentacles waving thoughtfully. "Why didn't you tell us?"

This is the most delicate part of it all. Rey holds her breath; Ben's lips tighten.

"He didn't know if he could trust us," Meela said, finally turning away. Light reflects off her helmet as she slowly shakes her head. "That's it, isn't it? You didn't trust us."

"I had committed treason, killed our leader, and am about to propose the end of the First Order."

"And you thought that would matter?" Nüe scoffs. "When haven't we done exactly what you asked?"

"Never," Ben says, and there's a smile on his face that almost approaches soft. _He looks at N_ _ü_ _e like a younger brother,_ Rey thinks. Someone he's guided and shepherded, through dangers and decades. "I didn't want to make your decisions for you. Not again."

"We never complained," Ballah says, stout and firm. "We were with you then. We're with you now."

As one, the Knights nod. If there's any dissension, hidden behind resolute faces, Rey can't see it. She can't feel it, either.

All she feels is an overwhelming wave of certainty. In Ben. In themselves. In their friendship.

"What's the plan?" Meela asks.

Ben nods. "We're going to change the galaxy."


	27. XXVII

**XXVII**

She doesn't often walk alone through the bright, austere halls of the _Primacy_. In those corridors of durasteel and plastic, of hard, sharp edges, Rey sometimes feels like no matter how many masked stormtroopers or helmeted officers she passes, she's the only living thing there. No one talks to her on the rare occasions she goes for a run past barracks and control centers. No one approaches her. They just stare. Stare at the woman their Supreme Leader cast a net over the galaxy to ensnare.

But Rey can't stay in her narrow world of bedroom, gym, mess hall, and Ben's room. She's too used to vast expanses, of wild dunes, of pitting her muscles against emptiness. The _Primacy_ is confined, but it's her world, now. She has to get to know it.

So, every few days, when she feels as though she's about to unzip her own skin to crawl out of herself, she runs. It's a new kind of exercise for her—running in sand is self-defeating—but she enjoys it. Her breath comes so fast it makes her lungs sore. Her muscles spasm, joints creak, and sweat pours until her eyes sting.

So by 'enjoys it', of course, Rey really means it's miserable and she hates every moment, but she's discovered that nothing comes close to the joy of stepping into the 'fresher afterwards and letting water stream over her and wash all that sweat away.

It's worth it.

Snorting like a wounded warthog, Rey drags up the last set of stairs to the secondary observation deck over navigation. There in that crow's nest, even higher than the command deck, against the stars, she pants and grins, head dropping back to roll against her shoulders. Everything else in life right now might be a great confusing mess, but traveling the stars still gives her a thrill. Makes her feel like she's escaped, that she's made it.

Like she's heading for something better.

"Enjoying the view?"

She sees his hair before he steps out of the shadows. It's a warm flame that's totally at odds with the man himself. Rey's always a little surprised that he doesn't die it black like some other try-hards on board.

"Yeah," she forces her body to stay still, relaxed. Hux is no threat to her, not really. "I haven't seen you here before."

"I have better things to do than moon over the stars."

She giggles. "Did you do that on purpose?"

Puns remind her of Poe. He was good with puns. He'd pause, right before making one, eyebrows raising like he'd enjoy their irritation as much as his cleverness. Rose used to throw things at him the second he made that face.

She misses him; misses all of them. It's been weeks since they've sent her any news.

Hux sneers as though she's brandished a fresh, steaming brundle-cow pat under his nose. "No."

That makes it even funnier. She turns to the window to avoid laughing in his face. For a moment, neither of them say another word.

Finally, he offers, "You must be in need of refreshment after your exertions," it's not an invitation, but it isn't a threat, either. He sounds...ill, more than anything. "Would you care for something to eat or drink?"

She glances at him over her shoulder, reaching out with her feelings as she eyes him up and down. Still no threat. Discomfort, irritation, distaste...but no intent to harm. Either he's a very good liar, even an emotional one, or there's something else going on here.

Rey steps closer, enjoying the way he forces himself upright to keep from retreating. She can't blame him; she's pretty ripe, and if _she_ can smell it, she must be pretty bad. Even by Jakku standards. She probes deeper, but feels nothing. Not even a shadow presence, pulling his strings.

"Do you intend me any harm?"

"If I did," he's downright offended, perhaps more than by her stench, "you would be harmed already."

He means _that_.

"Fine," she's curious, which has and always will override her staunch sense of self-preservation, "Some water would be nice."

* * *

 **Note:** Sorry for the delay. Life is less stressful, but also changing rapidly right now. Please, leave a contribution in the little (review) box!


	28. XXVIII

**XXVIII**

She trails him off the observation deck, staying a respectful and wary half-a-meter behind. If he's uncomfortable with her at his back, his upright carriage doesn't show it. It doesn't show much of anything, really, save for the massive steel pole that must have been surgically inserted up his ass when he was an infant. He walks so evenly he's almost robotic…but he's too perfect to be a robot.

Rey can't imagine what he's going to say to her. There couldn't be two more dissimilar creatures in the galaxy.

But she's still pretty sure he's not leading her into a trap. Pretty sure, anyway. Her hand rests lightly on her lightsaber; her other hand drifts back and forth over the comm unit clipped to her belt. If he _does_ mean to assassinate her, it'll be the last thing he ever does.

"Please," he offers, stiffly, gesturing towards a private lounge.

As Rey steps over the threshold, fluorescent lights crackle on, bathing the room in pale illumination that rises from the floor instead of falling from the ceiling. Inset strips of lighting outline the furniture as well: the rhomboid coffee table, the trapezoidal sofas, the square computer consoles. The only organic shapes in the room are the round-bottomed or pot-bellied liquor bottles, clustered like a frightened flock of porgs on the long, narrow bar beneath wide viewing windows.

This isn't a room for relaxation, but it must be as close to that concept as Hux gets.

"Something to drink?" He's pouring himself a few fingers of something rich and raisin-y, a smell that sticks inside Rey's nostrils.

"No, thank you," her throat is dry and her sweat is chilling off her—a cup of tea would be nice—but she can't trust anything he touches.

He understands, and doesn't press the matter. His charade of hospitality was only that, and it has now been satisfied.

They sit on facing couches, hard cushions giving only a centimeter or two, and regard each other in bemused silence. It seems to surprise them both to find themselves in such a situation.

"What did Ren intend? Bringing you here?"

"If you want an explanation from the Supreme Leader," she keeps her lips from twisting at the silly title, "I suggest you ask him."

"You're not going to betray the Resistance," it's not a question. Rey doesn't answer it, but nor does he wait for a response, "He must want to marry you. Produce a line of," _his_ lips twist, "Force-sensitive offspring."

She snorts.

"You think it's a ridiculous prospect?"

"I think it's funny that you've thought about it so much."

He sips at his drink. "There's a story going around, a story about your," he pauses, significantly, "capture. I wonder if you would fill in some of the details for me?"

"There's not much to say. He downed my ship, captured my friend, I escaped, and he ransomed my friend's life for mine. I went back, and now I'm here." It's a simple narrative, one they crafted themselves. She tilts her head. "Which part confuses you?"

"The part where the Supreme Leader of the First Order spent three days waiting for a scavenger on Psyllia, when other matters required his attention."

"What is this, General Hux?" Rey doesn't relish these shadow games; they make her skin prickle, like sand's clogged her pores, "What are you after?"

Hux swallows the rest of his drink and winces. Suddenly, Rey sees the dark under-eye shadows that make his face yet more skeletal, and the faint tremor in his listless hands. Her stomach turns a slow, swinging somersault.

"Survival," he says, guttural.

Rey suppresses the urge to shudder, wishing she had taken him up on his offer of a drink. Her fingers itch to fidget. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come now," he snaps, rocketing upright, a shock of hair sliding loose and falling over his eyebrow. It cuts his pale skin like rivulets of blood. "You're a worse liar than he is."

The bottles on the bar clink and squeak as he rattles through them. Another slosh pours into his glass; he gulps it down before pouring again. Rey is still grasping for reality, a slippery concept that slides from her fingers every time she reaches out. She can't imagine Hux drunk any more than she can imagine Ben laughing.

 _Isn't_ that _tragic?_ she thinks, watching Hux guzzle a third drink. He brings his chosen bottle back to the table with him, slamming it down between them, a thrown gauntlet. What his challenge is, Rey doesn't want to guess.

"You haven't said anything that I could lie about," Rey says.

"He's going to overthrow the Order, isn't he?"

She flinches, and he sees.

His smile is a knife. "I thought so. Thank you, scavenger," he eels towards her, "A further question: am I on his list of unfortunates for the block?"

She can't conceal her contempt, or the icy fear behind it.

"Ah. Well, he would be right to dispose of me, of course. He knows I loathe him."

"Why tell me?" Rey shrugs, but it's too late to feign nonchalance. An oil-slick of unease spreads inside her.

"Because, as it is, you have no hope of achieving your goal. What, do you think a handful of paid traitors and a half-dozen Force users can stage a coup on a large enough scale to unseat the Order? I've spent my _life_ building it, strengthening its foundations," he's working himself up to a foaming speech; his spittle flies and lands wetly on the table between them.

"The Force may be strong, but it is nothing in comparison with _my_ achievements!"

"If that's true," the more restless he becomes, the easier it makes her, "why are you so afraid?"

He's silent. She fills the void.

"You're afraid," she can't read his mind, but she can read _him_. She's known dozens like him, petty criminals, thugs, from Jakku. Building their pitiful empires on skeletons of violence and fear, more terrified than anyone they oppress that it might all be gone one day, just disappear and leave them naked and vulnerable.

"One Sith master undid the Empire," she reminds him, not gently, "and before that, that same master destroyed the Jedi. If those two could fall, why can't we defeat the First Order?

"But you knew that," now it's her turn to slither closer, whisper doubts in his ear, "That's why you invited me here. You want to switch sides, save your own skin. Because you know who's going to win this battle. And you know it's not the Order."

He's shriveled in on himself, hair hanging limp over his eyes. If he acknowledges her in any way, she can't see it.

But it doesn't matter. Perhaps this is all one grand deception, but even if it is, Rey can't bear to hear any more. The sight of him sniveling there, pickled on four hasty drinks, not even brave enough to beg her to save his life, is all she needs.

It's a break for them, the conspirators; a good one, at that. If he's sincere, Hux's participation in their coup may guarantee success.

But she can't stand looking at him.

He doesn't stop her when she leaves the room, nor does she look back.

* * *

 **Note:** Apropos of nothing, but for a while, I had a thing for Rey/Hux as well. Still do, sometimes. I'd love to see them get some screentime together in Episode IX!


	29. XXIX

**XXIX**

"He said _what_?"

"I know!" Rey's voice is garbled around her toothbrush, so she spits and rinses before going on. "I couldn't believe it. I _can't_ believe it. There's no way we can trust him."

When Ben doesn't respond, she sticks her head out of the bathroom. "To be clear: there's _no way_. Right?"

He runs his hand through his hair, and the gesture is so simple and young Rey's heart flutters in her chest like a new-hatched bird. He's an odd compendium in that way. So often she sees flashes of the boy in him, frozen and preserved behind a glacial wall of trauma.

"We could use him," he says at last, tugging at the ends of his hair. "If he's sincere, it would save us effort and risk."

"And if he's not, we'll be dead before we get out of bed tomorrow," Rey runs a brush through her hair, letting the loose waves gather around her shoulders. "I'm sorry; I should have tried harder to hide the truth."

He gazes at her, eyes soft. "Neither of us are good liars. He would have found out sooner or later. Clearly, he suspected enough already."

The water in the sink is so hot it steams; Rey splashes her face with it, wincing as it sears her skin pink as a newborn's, and shuts off the stream. Unsettled as she is about her altercation with Hux, it can't help but feel like a distant problem when her belly is full, when she's clean and comfortable.

She slides into bed, blinking owlishly at Ben, who sits on the bench at its foot. "So what should we do?"

"We'll put him to the test. If he really means to help us, he'll be the one to assassinate Abaloe."

"Abaloe? Even _we_ can't figure out how to get to her," Rey considers, then shrugs. "It'll be a good test, anyway."

"Exactly. My—General Leia always made high-level defectors prove their worth before she'd accept them."

It's not the first time he's cut off any mention of his relationship with Leia, but this is the first time Rey pushes back. Well, nudges. Gently.

"You can say 'my mother', you know," her voice is neutral, almost distant, and she doesn't move an inch. Like a wildcat, she can't let him know she's sneaking up on his vulnerable side. "She misses you. I know she'll be happy to see you when all this is over."

He writhes like he's sat on a nest of spiders. A blotchy flush creeps up his neck. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I know. But I think you should. You don't think I understand bad parents?" though Rey isn't willing to admit Ben's version of events—that Leia neglected him and Han abandoned him—she doesn't deny that whatever he felt about their actions still impacts him deeply. "You know I do. If they were still out there…I don't know what I'd do."

"But you expect me to know how to feel about my mother?"

She almost flinches. Discipline keeps her still. "No. But it could help to talk about it."

As he so often does, he reacts by deflecting. "Did talking about your parents make you feel better? I still feel your resentment towards them, your longing for understanding. It tortures you. Wondering how they could do what they did."

His words sting, but she hangs on. "Ben," his name is her token, her magic talisman to call him back out of fear and hatred, "talk to me."

For a long moment, she's worried he won't. But worry can't help; she concentrates and glows out like the sun, radiating warmth, comfort, and support. _It's all right_ , she sends to him, soothes to him, _it's all right. Talk to me. I want to know. I want to understand._

Finally, he speaks. Roughly, "She sent me away. I was ten, and she sent me away. She never told me why. She never told me _anything_."

His voice sticks. Rey waits, then asks, "About what?"

"Any of it," he can't look at her; he's ashamed of the tears that lie heavy on his tongue. Rey waits, still sending him everything she can. She's strong enough to bear whatever he has to say.

"Do you know she never told the galaxy about her father? That he was Darth Vader?"

"No. I—I'm not surprised she'd try to hide it, though."

He snorts. "Well, she didn't. What's more, she didn't tell _me_. I grew up with these…urges, these _voices_ in my head, telling me to—" he pauses, wondering so loudly and so wildly if he should say it, confess it, or whether it will drive her away. It's a painful patch of rot at his very core, Snoke's persistent influence.

Rey intercedes. They'll get to it one day, but now isn't the moment. "So you had no idea why you were so strong with the Force?"

"No. I knew that my mother and uncle were, but they…they didn't struggle with it, like I did. They controlled it so easily. It didn't whisper to them. Tempt them. Or," his head slides forward, ragged hair hiding his eyes, "if it did, they never told me."

Rey shakes her head now that he can't see her. But her fiery indignation isn't for him, not this time. How could a mother keep this from her son? Even if she thought it was for the best, how did ignorance help? Rey knows that Leia regrets Ben's loss—you can't live for weeks on a tiny smuggler's ship without getting to know your roommates a little _too_ well—but she had no idea there were so many personal mistakes eating the general from within.

She's trying not to judge. Not to judge anyone. She doesn't have the right, and she often does it too quickly and without due consideration. But seeing Ben sitting there, the weight of years of deception bowing him down…

Rey breathes and reaches for balance. The past doesn't matter any longer, save as addressing it shapes the future.

"But you learned, right? Eventually?"

"Yes. But by then," he shrugs, looks at her. Weary beyond words, "it didn't matter. I used it as an excuse to commit to my path, as proof that I was never meant to be a Jedi."

She hears what he can't admit yet: that he used his mother's lies as an excuse for his own vengeance. The boy inside the man, again. A boy's resentment magnified and enacted in a man's vicious revenge.

It chills her. He feels it.

"There," he snaps, bitterly. "Did talking about it help? Does your new understanding bring us closer?"

"Yes," she says, and closes the distance between them. Suddenly she feels very much what she is; a girl—hair loose, in baggy pajamas—comforting a boy. Everything else sinks beneath the sands. "It does."

He doesn't believe her. He's so focused on his weakness, his past, that he can't even feel her hand on his shoulder. Rey thinks for a moment, then replaces her cool palm with warm lips.

He feels _that._

She rests her cheek on his shoulder. "We'll fix it," it's a tangled mess, but in that moment, she believes her own promise. Both Ben and Leia have been twisted by fear, manipulated by a master player, but that's over now. They'll come together and be a family again. If she's very lucky, she'll be a part of it. Perhaps a bit dented, a patch rusted. But a family.

He's too hopeful, too fearful to speak. He just swallows and sighs.

They sit like that for a few minutes before he finally stirs himself.

"You should go to bed," he says, shifting gently so she has time to move back, "I'll speak to Hux tomorrow."

"Want backup?" she must be getting drowsy, starting to see shadows. She must be, because the eager smile on his face verges on a grin.

"Oh, no. I'll handle him."


	30. XXX

**XXX**

"So. What's your proposal?"

Ben's demand is abrupt, jarring, but very much of a piece with how they've all prepared for this meeting. Subtlety is completely beside the point. They didn't even bother with any subterfuge, assembling together in Hux's office. Rey and Ben simply strolled onto the bridge and Hux followed them off.

Hux took one precaution in polarizing the windows overlooking the bridge—some junior officer might earn a few credits on the side selling secrets to another commander's ship—but then he faces them brazenly.

" _My_ proposal, Ren? Surely you mean to tell me your plan before I disclose mine?"

"No," Ben's lips twitch; he's enjoying this, "You've come to us. If you're so desperate to be on the side of the victors, surely you can tell us what you plan to offer?"

"Didn't you tell him?"

Hux tosses the question in Rey's direction, seemingly unconcerned as to whether she chooses to catch it or not. But the very way his eyes avoid hers is telling. Rey thinks he was more honest than he intended in his confession to her. Hux is so smooth and still he could be a statue, but Rey remembers when that statue shook and shivered like a human man.

She doesn't think, whatever else happens, that he'll forgive her for having seen him like that.

But she does him a favor and doesn't make him crawl.

"Yes," she says, "but you weren't very specific, were you?"

Okay, she'll make him crawl a _little._

"I told you I could deliver you Abaloe. Surely such a pledge is worth a little trust?"

"Words are words; they flow like bantha spit, as they say," Ben drawls, "and are just as worthless. You know I must have proof before I trust you."

"You want me to assassinate one of the four Marshals of the First Order without any guarantee this isn't an elaborate ruse to bring about my downfall?" His nose wrinkles so sharply he looks like he's about to sneeze.

"That's precisely what I want. Because until you do, how do I know this isn't a plot to entrap us?"

They stare, sizing each other up. Wild Rabbadon hounds, hackles raised and teeth bared, scenting blood and weakness.

Rey snorts. "How in the twelve hells did you get any work done on this ship?"

"You'll have to ask your _lover_ ," Hux sneers, "Ren, I never congratulated you. I didn't think you knew which side of a woman was up, let alone how to f—"

Rey intercedes before Ben can make the man swallow his own tongue. While Hux gags on the floor, breath whistling through a bruised windpipe, she turns her back on him and glowers.

"We _need_ him," she hisses, "Would you please stop comparing...egos and just get on with it?"

Ben's still flushed—a mix of shame and fury—when Hux catches his breath and stands. Apparently, their new alliance, tentative as it is, has given him a small measure of courage, because there's a faint shadow of a triumphant smile on his face.

"I thought so," Hux pants, "I knew it. I hope he was worth it," this time he looks at her when he gloats, "because the likelihood of any of us living through this is dwindling by the minute. But I suspect you had a few tricks to teach him, didn't you, scavenger?"

Rey's outstretched hand deflected Ben's near-killing stroke. "Stop it!" her patience torn to shreds, she was ready to shove them both aside and let them butcher each other. She shoves the thought into his mind like a durasteel spike: _he's doing this to get a rise out of you._

It takes Ben's rage-soaked brain a few moments to absorb the message. Once he does, fiery fury congeals almost instantly into chill chagrin. Yet that makes him only more dangerous. Shame always does. So Rey inches to one side, interposing herself between Ben and Hux. He won't strike through her. Angry as Hux makes him, Ben won't become Kylo again if she can help it.

The crisis point passes.

"I cannot move against Abaloe without some assurance you will assist me if I need it."

"The way you talked, it sounded like getting rid of her wouldn't be a problem for you," Rey said, "Where is all this hesitation coming from?"

"From a place of self-preservation," he replies, simply. "I can destroy her, but not while preserving my anonymity. Certain agents of mine will be caught. When they are, there is no guarantee they will do as they pledged, and prevent themselves from talking."

Rey's stomach clenches. Suicide, he means. How could you pay someone—or blackmail someone—enough to make someone do that?

The sickening truth hits her then, exactly like a punch to the gut. It's not just agents he has under his thumb. It's their families.

When she sends a questioning feeler out to Ben, she touches only a blank wall in response. He's not blocking her, but he's not giving her anything because there's nothing he can say. He knows. He knew before making the choice to take Hux up on his offer.

Rey can't speak out now, but she shoots him a glare that tells him this is _not_ something that can stand.

"You believe that the testimony of a few assassins will be enough to blacken your reputation as a fervid supporter of the Order?"

"My ambitions are well-known," Hux's tone is ironic, wry, "I don't believe it will take much convincing for anyone to believe I would _not_ attempt something like this."

"What if," Rey pauses, the words having escaped before her thought was even formed. It was skeletal still, but more promising that any other option, "What if _we_ didn't support you, but someone else did?"

"I imagine that if one of your Knights assisted me, someone might be able to trace that back to your influence. And outside of the Knights, whom do you trust?"

"Not the Knights, and you can put that smug smile away," she snaps. Already she's regretting having spoken, but the thought is insistent now and has too many advantages to put aside. "I'm talking about the Resistance."

Both men startle, as if she's screamed a curse into the cold, stale air between them.

"The Resistance?" Hux rolls his R majestically, jerking his chin upright. "I would not trust them to successfully shear a—"

"Yeah, yeah," she cuts him off, "they're incompetent fools and nothing to the Order and so on and so forth. What do you think?"

This last, directed to Ben, yields a more useful response.

"We'd have to arrange a secure way of contacting them," he says, "but it would work. They could keep him safe for us, and provide good cover. Abaloe's assassination and Hux's capture would be precisely the kind of bold move the General would make. All we would have to do is provide a reason for them to be in the same sector."

"Well, he can do that," she jerks a thumb at Hux, still gaping over being so unceremoniously interrupted, "and as to communication..." she takes a deep breath, "I've got something to tell you."

"Oh?"

It's hard, after all they've been through, to admit she's been deceiving him all this time, but Rey hopes her confession will strengthen their bond, not weaken it.

Hope. Again and again, she's hanging by it, dangling from its gossamer strings. She feels how high up she is, how devastating the fall could be, and steps out anyway.

"I have a subdermal communicator. I've been in contact with the Resistance ever since I came to you on Psyllia."

He smiles.

Smiles?

And there's a wave of gratitude from the Bond, gratitude and joy. She's told him; she hasn't hidden her secret or covered it up with lies.

She gasps. "You knew?"

He nods. "I did."

There's so much they need to discuss, so many differences between them still, but in that moment, Rey feels ready to trust him, and hope, and everything.

Even Hux.

* * *

 **Note:** Hey everyone. Thanks as always for your support of this story; your comments are insightful and I've loved reading them! Which makes me sad that I have to say this, but the next few months are going to be extremely busy.

I'm going on a two-month hiatus (maybe more). I'm starting a new job this week, and the following week I'll be starting student-teaching to get my teacher's license. Between that and irregular working hours, lesson planning and homework, I won't have time for writing. I hope that I'll have time for a few chapters here and there, but I'm not going to push it or promise anything. I'd rather wait and give you quality material than rush out sloppy chapters.

I wanted to start the hiatus on an interesting note, though, so I look forward to reading your theories on what will happen next!

Wish me luck, and I'll see you in May.


	31. XXXI

**XXXI**

They stand divided, in a rough half-circle, split down the middle in a jagged line. Leia, Poe, and Connix, for the Resistance. Hux and Ballah, for the Order. And Rey, of course. Who stands alone.

No stormtroopers or fighter grunts were permitted, not for either side; the meeting is already too risky for everyone involved. Rey feels the danger as a crystal figurine teetering on the edge of a table, but she also senses possibility, like acrid ozone in the atmosphere. It's all in her imagination, for there's certainly no taste of air, air of any kind, in this squalid little pub in the filthy crowded slum they chose for their meeting.

Seeing her friends again, something Rey has so long hoped for, feels odd. Like wearing a salvaged pair of boots too big for her, or looking through a visor lens that's warped in desert heat. Her words slide off and around her meaning, never quite connecting. Everything she says or does, from her greeting to her smiles, feels off-kilter. Wrong. Unsuitable.

"Where is the Supreme Leader?" Leia glances from Hux to Ballah, avoiding Rey. Rey, after their initial introductions, has stood herself to the side, purposefully to be avoided at moments like this. Poe doesn't have the General's discretion; he practically stares at Rey, stares so that his gaze burns her cheek like sunlight focused under a spyglass.

"Do you think he would bother himself with a paltry assembly like this?"

Rey doesn't smile, but she thinks how funny it is to hear Hux trot out his impressive vocabulary to defend Ben's honor, when the whole ride to the rendezvous he'd sneered at what he called their 'great leader's cowardice'.

"Too pathetic to face his own mother," he'd grinned, a sickly death's-head in the shuttle's cold light. The only thing that had shut him up had been Ballah, igniting his saber and performing a tense ballet of forms in the center of their extremely small shuttle.

One of Hux's eyebrows still looks singed.

"Coward," Poe mutters, and it hurts Rey's heart. Ben is many things, but a coward is one he has forced himself beyond. At last, he is facing the things that terrified him for so long.

But she can't shield him from this well-deserved scorn.

"He sent me as his…his representative," her voice is soft, but resigned. She is only glad, after seeing the way Connix and Poe look at her, like a yellow-bellied cave slug on the toe of their boots, that Finn isn't there. She wants to sink through the floor, or evaporate into the Force, but she won't. This is painful beyond measure, but no more so than anything she's born in her short, painful life. "I assure you this offer is genuine."

"Nothing from the First Order is genuine," Poe counters, "General, we can't—"

"Poe," she interrupts, voice threadbare, "At least let me hear what he has to say before we reject it out-of-hand."

Everyone except Hux smiles at that. Even Ballah, though it's hard for anyone who doesn't know him to tell. After a few months of sharing meals, exercise, and banter with him…Rey does.

The joke has its intended effect. Everyone—except Hux, who is congenitally unable to—relaxes.

"Well, so tell us about this offer of yours."

"I propose," in defiance of their camaraderie, Hux draws himself even tighter, "to prove my honest intention of…defecting to the Resistance by delivering Grand Marshal Abaloe to your prisons or your fighters. Whichever you prefer."

Poe's eyes widen, and there's a gleam in them that shines through the dark chamber. "Abaloe? And how would you do that."

"My relationship to the Marshal is such that she will trust me should I ask her to join me at a private meeting. She and I share misgivings over Ren's abilities as Supreme Leader," his smile widens as Leia's peaceable expression hardens, "and should I tell her that I have a plan to overthrow him, I believe she will be interested enough to hear it."

"You don't think it will be suspicious if you invite her to a secret meeting where she's captured and you're not?" Connix puts in.

Hux is too dignified to roll his eyes, but it's a close thing. "I will _invite_ her to a rendezvous. _She_ will be apprehended en route and _I_ will be unsuccessfully ambushed by Resistance spies. Any investigation into the matter will discover my private communiques broken into by a Resistance data-slicer. My reputation will be preserved and you will have two high-ranking members of the First Order to use as you will."

"How kind of you to include yourself in that count," Leia remarks, "But that seems a solid plan."

Hux can't help preening. But his feathers droop as she goes on.

"What I want to know, before we take another step in any direction, is why you want to join the Resistance? I knew your father, Armitage Hux. I sat across a negotiating table from him more than once. I never heard a compromise or concession from him, never.

"A more pompous, pretentious, and patrician member of the Galactic elite would be hard to find anywhere. Do you know what he would have done to you, if he could hear the way you're speaking tonight?"

"I think we can both be thankful he's in his grave," Hux grinds out, "Or I would be in mine. I have no intention of being so rigid someone puts poison in my drink."

"Hmm," Leia's implacable smile returns, teasing catlike at the edges of her mouth. "I think we had better discuss details."

* * *

 **Notes:** Guess who's back, people! Okay, so it's been two teensy months longer than I planned, but, good news! I not only finished my teacher preparation program (with a 3.91 GPA, what-whaaaat) but I'm now working an awesome job from home (yaaaaaas) and am getting ready for a six-week vacay through France and the UK. So, things are going well at last!

Anywho, I hope y'all are still interested in hearing how this story ends, because it's on! Please as always, leave a note in the little (review) box, and enjoy!

Also, I have made myself sad that there will never be a real scene with Hux and Leia just side-eyeing the shit out of each other. Oh well. That's what fic's for, right?


	32. XXXII

**XXXII**

"That settles the last of it, then," Leia's voice is gray with exhaustion, "Does anyone see anything we've missed?"

No one answers. Tempers and tongues are threadbare; everyone knows better than to speak and rile old irritations. "Then I think Connix should get familiar with your communication frequencies if we're going to eavesdrop on them. Poe, go with her. You'll be sure to get the shield frequencies for their escort fighters, and anything else you need."

"Very well, then," Hux snaps his fingers, "Ballah, with me. And…Lady Rey, if you will. We should be on our way," her title still comes awkwardly to Hux's lips, but Rey can tell that—in his warped mind—he's paid her a compliment by aligning her with them. It's touching, and wrong, and unsettling in the same way that this entire day has been.

"Actually, I'd like to speak to the General before we leave," Rey says, and it's hard to bring her eyes to Leia's, but she sees no judgement there.

"Every moment we delay leads to greater chance of discovery," Hux speaks from that lofty place he does whenever he feels that others are being unduly influenced by their emotions, "Surely there is nothing left to say?"

"A quick chat won't cost anyone anything. Connix, Poe, go get what we need from the General here. We'll be away in no time," Leia forestalls Poe's anxiety with an upraised palm.

The group files out of the room, one by one, Connix tossing coins to the housekeeper as they leave, for the tray of stale bread they didn't eat and the two pitchers of rancid ale nobody touched. They file out, unremarked among the drunken knots of people clotting the corridors. Ballah is the only one who pauses to look at Rey before he leaves, and there's an expression on his face that savors of sympathy. It disappears beneath his helmet.

The pub's noise is convenient. In bursts and starts, it's loud enough to muffle the noisome silence between them.

"Things must be going well. Haven't seen you so relaxed since our days on the _Falcon._ What do you need to know?"

Rey could kiss Leia for her simple, pure sight. For a long moment, she can't speak.

"So much has happened," it's only now, now that she can discuss it with someone, that she realizes just how much. "I saw Luke."

"You have?" Leia, so rarely moved beyond wry humor or gentle resignation, gasps. "Is he…is he all right? Is he happy?"

"He's more than all right. He told me so many things, so much more. He's learned everything he ever wanted to know, and he told me…he told me what he could. If I had a year, I don't think I could explain to you everything he meant."

"Then don't. Just tell me what it meant to you."

They've come to sit side-by-side on a bench by the door, Leia's hand on her knee. Rey can feel her strong fingers trembling where the grip her, tight and painful. Hope can be a knife's edge.

"He told me about the Force. The _true_ Force. One without sides, without favorites. Just one of boundless compassion, like the ocean it came from," her eyes close as she pictures it; the richness of Takodana with the wild fury of Ahch-To. Even the stark purity of Jakku is in there somewhere.

Life, death. Abundance, want. The Force is everything, and Rey's words jam in her throat. Her knowledge of the galaxy is so small that she has little to furnish her imagination, nor can she convey the beauty of Luke's words. But words aren't necessary to those who can use the Force.

She links her fingers with Leia's and the truth is beauty enough.

Now Leia is silent, and tears run down the narrow grooves of her soft wrinkles.

"Oh," she breathes, wipes her face, "oh, Rey. He loves you so much. I never thought I'd feel that love again." She pulls away her hand like the sensation's too much, and presses it to her chest.

Rey knows she's no longer talking about Luke.

"I've helped him," Rey divulges the truth like a fragile bird she's held and nourished at her heart, "He wants to change. He's let me in."

"I see. I saw," tears threaten to spill again, "I knew his heart like that, once. I gave it up, from fear of the dark. You've given me back my son."

"He wanted to come back. He just didn't see how he could."

"And there's still a long way to go. Do you think," Leia is trying to bottle her emotions, to keep some sort of rein on the exuberance of her hopes. Rey shifts away to keep her own joy from bleeding over. "Do you think he'd meet me? Before all this is over?"

"He wanted—he meant to come today," _want_ is too strong a word, after all. He had been _willing_ to come, though dreading every thought of it. "He just thought…with Hux and you and me, that it would be too much."

"So we'll keep dancing around each other then?" the question isn't meant to be answered. Leia shakes her head. "I've been patient this long. For the first time, I have something to be patient _for_. I know this isn't what we planned. Do you want to come back with us?"

Rey's mind reels. Her immediate thought is of the _Falcon_ , of their little group around the table in the mess, talking, eating, laughing. Rose, Finn, Poe, veiled in rich golden memories. Her friends, her very first friends. She wants that, aches for it, there's a rip in her heart that tore open the day she left.

It's incomplete. What once would have contented her now has the coppery taste of disappointment. If she returned, she would lose Ben. He'd fall back to the dark, lost again, lost to her. She won't do that. She can't.

Her resolve must show on her face, because Leia nods.

"Then bring him back, Rey. Bring him back for us."


	33. XXXIII

**XXXIII**

Kylo is not a demonstrative man. He has little experience with hugs or kisses, and those he remembers are dim in his memory.

Han, in the interests of making him a man, had left off caresses when Ben turned six. All the boy received thereafter were rough hair-tousles, pats on the back, or awkward handshakes, all administered with Han's uncertain grimace. The man had little idea of how to be a father, having had none of his own. Leia had been more affectionate, but her affection was always rushed, always snatched between Senate sessions or backroom negotiations. Ben remembers the strong press of her arm, a firm kiss on his head, the fleeting whiff of her perfume—the perfume that stayed with him longer than she ever did—and then the rustle of her skirts as she hurried off.

None of these poor experiences gives him any insight into how he should treat Rey when she returns.

Thankfully, she knows what to do.

Not in front of others, of course. She has better sense than to treat him with anything other than distant, vaguely resentful calm when they meet in the hanger of the _Primacy_. The rumor has been spread through the ship that Kylo sent her away with Hux to uncover a Resistance base she'd betrayed to the Order. It's plausible enough that Ben can practically hear every brain whirring furiously, every eye straining to see how Lady Rey will greet her captor.

She doesn't disappoint. The rumors will persist that the scavenger scum hates their Supreme Leader, but that he has mastered her nonetheless.

It's only when his door seals behind her that she finally drops the scowl and grins. Grins, like starlight breaking from behind a gloomy nebula, showering the galaxy in diamond brilliance.

"I missed you," she says, standing on tiptoe to fling both arms around his shoulders. He's so tall and broad that her hands can barely touch across the wide expanse of his back. However little of him she covers, he feels warmed down to his core.

His own arms hang awkwardly. "I missed you too," he replies, unsure. Is this what people say to each other? Kissing is so much easier, so much less hazy. He learned quickly what to do then. Slowly, he brings his hands up to her back, feeling her taut muscles shifting under his palms.

She sighs, content. He feels her clicking back into place beside him, _inside_ him, a puzzle piece painfully ripped away in her absence and now restored at last. It's suddenly easy to relax into her contentment as well.

But however much he wishes he could huddle inside her like this, forever, the moment passes. "How did it go?" They haven't dared risk even coded transmissions, and Ben's been living on a lightsaber's edge for days. "Will the Resistance play its part?"

"Yes," reluctantly her hands release and Rey drops down onto her heels. "The plan's in motion. Hux will lure Abaloe to a meeting, they'll both be ambushed, and he'll get away by the spit of his tongue."

"By the what?"

"It's an expression. From Jakku. 'By the spit of my tongue'? It means—"

"I understand the meaning. I've just never heard you use it."

"Well, it sounds better in Teedo," she shrugs. A roll of syllables trip off her tongue; it does indeed sound better in Teedo.

He shakes off the idea that he wants to just sit in the dark and listen to her speak for an hour.

"Then next we have to ensure that once Abaloe is gone that our plans for the other Marshals are foolproof. I've been considering them while you've been away—"

"Ben," she interrupts, a cool hand on his arm, "Don't you want to hear about Leia?"

 _No_ , is his first thought. _Definitely not_ , is his second.

"We don't have time," is what he says, because he won't show her his uncertainty. His _fear_.

It doesn't matter, because she feels it. Of course she does; he's so thrilled by her return—which he can't admit to himself that he doubted, but he did—that any thought of shielding his emotions is useless.

"She wished you had been there," she begins, crossing the room to sit on the bed. Her boots come off, and her socks; her toes flex and bend, pushing against hard durasteel. "She understood why you couldn't be, of course, but she wants to see you. I think next time you should go instead of me."

This last is said casually, as Rey is massaging her sore instep, but they both feel it as the bomb it is.

"It's not the right time," he says, crossing his arms. "Once all this is done, then…" even with the hypothetical space of years, he can't bring himself to imagine what their reunion might look like. There are too many possibilities, most of them horrible beyond words. Beyond anything the Dark could conjure for him. He's murdered her husband, been responsible for the death of her brother. Hunted down her friends, her allies, and slaughtered them like animals in a pen.

What woman, even a mother, could possibly welcome him back in the aftermath of so much devastation?

"I know," Rey says. She looks up at him, trusting eyes wide. "It won't be easy."

He snorts.

She shrugs, nodding ruefully. No little understatement, that.

"Come here," she motions to the bed. At the dumbfounded look on his face—like a shika deer caught in a floodlight—she laughs. The sound is so uncommon in his rooms that the walls seem to flinch. Through a blush, she mutters, "Not like that. Come sit with me. I haven't seen you in a week."

Her arms rise to him, enticing, beckoning. Before he feels himself move he's sitting beside her, hands pressed between his knees. She takes _that_ in with a grin, confident again, and pokes him in the shoulder until she has him where she wants him, spread out over the dark blankets.

"You're so tall I can't reach you when you're standing," her breath tickles his ear; he doesn't start, but it's a close thing. Her arm is an iron band across his chest, wiry muscle pressing down, greedy in its strength. He thinks briefly of Leia, but Rey is nothing like her.

She, he is beginning to realize, will not leave. Or, if she does, she will return.

As if a knot has unraveled within him, he rolls onto his side and pulls her towards him, swallowing her breathy gasp with a kiss. But it's not the time for more. He tucks her head under his chin and strokes her hair, as she nuzzles deeper into him. Then they talk. What they say doesn't seem to matter.

Intimacy isn't that complicated after all.


	34. XXXIV

**XXXIV**

"Please stop it," Rey hisses out the side of her mouth, where Ben's bulk paces the lift beside her, "You're making me nervous."

Her nerves don't need any help from his. Though she has enough practice keeping herself motionless in some _very_ stressful situations—dangling from a sprained wrist thirty feet from the deck of a scuttled Star Destroyer being one of a dozen such experiences—each and every one of her atoms still feels like it's boiling inside her. If she vibrates any harder she thinks she'll clip through the floor like a faulty holo.

They both know what they're doing. They both know, down to the last second, precisely what should happen to whom and where. None of it helps.

Ben gives the doom a voice. "We shouldn't do this."

"It doesn't work any other way," Rey reminds him, again, precisely the way she reminded him twice last night, "Hux is right. None of the Knights can fly as well as I can; we all know it. I'm the best person to pilot the follow-fighter. And if both of us disappear at the same time, it only proves Hux's point that you're too distracted by me to run the Order. Another piece of bait for Abaloe."

His twisted lips show how little he wants to admit the truth. "The words "Hux is right" sound unnatural, coming from you. And me too, for that matter. You're sure—" he checks himself, swallowing. Then, despite how foolish it is, he touches her arm, right where her implant is still broadcasting.

Feeling it does little to reassure him, but touching her does. His body breathes a sigh of relief.

Her own muscles are still wound tight, so tight she thinks she might shatter when she moves. "It'll be all right," she whispers; to convince herself, or him, or the Force that seems to be sounding an alarm with each of their heartbeats.

Rey focuses on facts. Yes, it's danger that they'll face apart, but it's danger they can _manage_. Moreover, it's danger they _must_ manage, if peace is ever to reign in the galaxy.

"A day," she finishes aloud, turning her arm so their wrists are touching, vein-to-vein, life flowing between them on an unseen current, "and we'll be so much closer. The Resistance will have Abaloe, we'll have Hux, and the other Marshals will fall."

"Yes," he says, fingers closing around her wrist and tugging her towards him. It's not the time for anything—they'll be at the hanger in a minute, no longer—but an insistent pulse in Rey's blood wishes they could stop, here, now. The lift is so small with him in it; he could crowd her against the wall and shut out the rest of the world.

"Now who's being distracting?" his hand tightens to the edge of pain. His voice has gone hoarse.

"Sorry," she smiles. "It's hard not to think about," a wicked thought unfurls in her mind like a curl of smoke, "I dreamed about it, sometimes. You and me. On the way to see Snoke. When it was just the two of us."

Worry slams out of his mind, replaced in an instant by the promise her words give him. A flood of images, half-formed, half-conceived, flicker behind his eyes.

" _You_ ," he snarls, and then his lips are on hers. Bruising. Devouring. Rey gives as good as she gets, letting his lust sear any lingering doubts from her mind. _This_ is what they're fighting for. The two of them, together. With no obstacles, no masters, no separations.

The lift chimes and they have half a second to untangle themselves and get their expressions into something resembling composure. Rey feels her bun slipping down the back of her head, but she has no time to fix it. Besides, anyone with eyes will see how flushed her face is, and Ben is red down to the strangling collar of his tunic.

Rey swallows as Hux's slimy fish-eyes land on her. It's clear from his sneer that he's guessed in an instant what they were up to. Rey wonders, watching him look down his nose at Ben, whether he ever loved anyone in his entire blunted life. His parents? His mother, at least? If not them, is there a woman or man somewhere among countless stars that he ever called lover?

She doubts it.

"Supreme Leader," he addresses Ben with scrupulous formality, "I take it you and Lady Rey have already…taken leave of one another?" His pause is just long enough to give offense, but not long enough to argue with.

"She isn't the one you should be concerned about," Ben grinds out, each word hard and precise as an arrowhead. He steps forward, forcing Hux to crane backwards just to keep his gaze, "If you cross us, by word, action, or _breath_ ," his power grips Hux's throat, a familiar threat by now, but effective every time, "I will flay you alive by inches. Do you understand?"

Hux nods, gasping when his airway clears. "Perfectly, Supreme Leader," it takes him an instant to compose his slicked-back hair and readjust his collar where he clutched it, futilely, for air, "Your fates and mine are linked. I wouldn't dare risk it."

Whether the _it_ Hux means is Ben's displeasure or his own fate is unclear. How like Hux, to make his oath open to semantic interpretation, Rey thinks.

"Is everything ready?" Rey nods towards the tiny skiff, the only occupant of the hanger.

"Yes. All the technology agreed upon was installed this morning. An advanced cloaking device, capable of working on a ship this size, as well as communication buoys and all the slicer tech you requested. Even if your Resistance crew should fail in their duties," Hux shrugged, "you should be able to gather at least a modicum of useful information from Abaloe's ship."

"It won't come to that," Ben says, but this is another old argument. Rey trusts the Resistance, she does, but it never hurts to have a backup plan.

"You insisted upon these modifications. It was not _my_ intention to have her use them," Hux shrugs again, "But I cannot delay. My own crew is standing by. Best of luck, and," his smile gleams like a knife, "may the Force be with you."

Neither Ben nor Rey replies. Hux slinks out, pleased at his triumphant last word. He doesn't see—and perhaps wouldn't even care about—the eye-roll they share behind his back.

Rey's Teedo-expletive laced screed raises even Ben's eyebrow.

A beat passes between them. Then:

"I couldn't have said it better myself. Next time, don't hold yourself back. I'd love to have Hux hear you call him a piss-drinking long-haul shit-seller who fu—"

"I know what I said," she cuts him off, embarrassed. "And maybe I will. Next time. But I don't want to think about Hux right now," she crosses the space between them, vast as the oceans of Ahch-To, and stands under his chin. "I don't want to think about anything but us."

"You'll be back soon," it's a question, not a reassurance. His chin rests on his head, but his stance shuffles, uneasy. "You have to be."

She chuckles. "I'll do my best, Supreme Leader. I wouldn't disappoint the head of the First Order. I am his helpless prisoner, after all."

Rey will cherish the wide-eyed look of confused, shamefully pleased shock that crosses Ben's face the instant before his personal communicator chimes, as well as the two or three swift gulps he needs to take before answering. Thankfully, Ballah can't tell that his fearless leader is undone by two teasing words; he reports that Hux's shuttle has launched, and signs off.

By the time Ben turns back to where Rey was standing, she's already powering up the skiff. From behind her transparent durasteel bubble, Rey can see Ben's shoulders slump as he stands there, alone. Then, he straightens to the proud, ironclad figure the galaxy had once had good cause to fear. She feels his resolution swell through their bond, and sends her own determination back. This is their first step taken towards positive change, and no matter how hard it stings, they have to take it on separate paths.

For now.

Rey doesn't know how to say goodbye to people she loves. Her farewells have been hasty, private things, and this one is no different. She's seen people take leave in dozens of ways. With a smile, a hug, a tear; a salute, a wave, a kiss blown off the fingertips.

What she settles for—and it feels wrong the instant she angles the nose of her ship away from him—is a curt, businesslike nod.

He returns it.

It's the last sight she sees before the starry panorama of space swallows her viewscreen, marred only by the vanishing ship on her scopes.

It's the last human face she sees until, her little skiff screaming warnings and coming apart at the seams after a barrage of fire that catches her too quickly to counter, a team of stormtroopers hauls her out of it and deposits her right at the shiny boot-tips of General Hux.

* * *

Happy New Year! I realize this update is long in coming, and I thank you for your support and patience. I wish all readers of this fic a happy, safe, and joyous 2019!


	35. XXXV

**XXXV**

He can't feel her. It doesn't strike him at first as odd—he's so used to closing himself off from others that, when she's not there, he sometimes falls into old habits—but even he can't miss the gut-wrenching surge of panic that hits him like a fist from two systems away. It's adrenaline, concentration, reliance on the Force…and then it's acid, corroding fear, burning away everything else.

Fear for herself. Fear for him.

Like a psychic shriek between the stars, she calls for him once. His name in her thoughts as a terrified warning. Then there is nothing but silence.

He has an instant to feel her terror, her longing for him and his safety, before a blaster bolt nearly shears his skull in half. Tarek, a lieutenant of no particular note, so mild-mannered Ben had doubted he had a pulse, let alone any murderous instincts, fires twice more before Ben seizes him in an iron fist and snaps his neck like a twig.

He regrets it instantly. A prisoner, especially a failed assassin, would be a useful source of information. Information he sorely needs. As it is, the abandoned corridor he finds himself in is pregnant with menace, every nook a possible hiding place for another assailant.

He draws his saber, keeping it in his hand and his thumb on the trigger. If he can preserve an illusion of ignorance of the plots that swirl around him, he might have a chance. A chance to save Rey. That chance is all that matters, one possibility in a million that, even if he dies, she might live.

Stalking up the corridor, heart hammering and energy spiking, Ben curses under his breath at how easily they'd been fooled. It's easy to put the pieces together in hindsight. The hunters have become the hunted. Hux must have taken his strategy of eliminating all the Marshals at once and turned it upon them instead. How much of a threat could two Jedi be—

He pauses. Except it's _not_ two Jedi. The Knights. _His Knights._ The ones he'd led here, sworn to protect, sworn to redeem. Hux would know, though Ben had never said as much, but he would _know_ that they would avenge their master. If he and Rey are targets, _they_ certainly are.

Through the Force, Ben reaches for them, but only a vast, cold echo of silence rings in his ears. He's alone.

Completely alone.

His hands shake with a weak, shivering tremble of fear. He could cut through the entire crew of the _Primacy_ , slaughter man after man until they're nothing but piles of wet flesh squelching under his boots. He could tear through the galaxy until his fingers were around Hux's throat and his bones shattered…but for what?

Without his Knights, without Rey, what does any of it matter?

A jogging squad of stormtroopers cuts him off at the end of the next hall, blasters raising as one as they sight him. His saber bisects them neatly in three strokes, their screams cut off before they begin. Ben looks up at the camera that tracks him and breaks into a run. Secrecy no longer matters. All that matters is what he does next, and how fast he can pull it off.

There's no question. Rey. He knows where she was flying, where she was when she called for him. He'll find her, he'll find her, and anyone who laid a finger on her skin will lose their own in return. Rage warms him, fires his blood, burns fear away—

And blinds him.

A line of pain sears from his shoulder to his wrist, laying him open to the bone. Just an inch further and he would have lost his arm to the blade that cuts him. As it is, he roars in agony and slams the body that wounded him against the wall until it resembles the bloody pulp of a _quarril_ , not a man.

But the damage is done. He's lost his sword arm; even holding his saber makes him want to scream from the pain, and his fingers are quickly losing sensation as blood leeches from him onto the deck below. Another minute of this and any chance of escape will fade with his consciousness.

Experience has taught him—kriff, how it has taught him!—precisely what needs to be done. Gasping, Ben braces himself against the wall, grasps his saber in his left hand, and lays the naked, searing blade against his wound.

Once, he would have used the pain of his blistering skin to fuel his rage. Once.

Now, it nearly makes him vomit.

Wheezing, tears burning in his eyes, Ben forces himself upright and hobbles down the hall. He cannot let his anger blind him again; if there is to be any hope for any of them, he must see clearly and calmly. With a breath to center himself, he reaches for the Force.

Why does Uncle Luke come to mind as he practices those age-old techniques to calm the mind and heighten the senses? He used to _loathe_ them, despise the hours Luke insisted he spend in meditation, using the Force to soothe his tormented spirit. He had not practiced in over a decade, yet despite everything, when he reaches for it, the Light is there. Waiting within him, a bubbling, abundant wellspring. Like a rush of cool water, it cradles him in an enveloping wave and lifts him up. For an instant, his vision washes bright blue and he fears he _is_ about to faint.

Instead, he finds certainty. Support.

 _The Knights. You must go to them._

The thought is not his own, but he doesn't question it. Rey has told him of her experiences being guided by the Force; perhaps it is trying to help him save her. He won't doubt it, not now that it's finally there when he's asked it for help.

 _Force_ , he prays, _guide my steps and my hand._

 _I am one with the Force. The Force is with me._

Assurance rises with each step. The _Primacy_ has been his home for months; he knows its ins and outs like he knows the freckles on Rey's face. With an upraised palm, he sends a surge of power running through the security net that fries all the cameras and intercoms in a burst of sparks. With no eyes to watch him, his next moves are secure, and he catches the next three ambushes before they know he's on them.

It becomes harder and harder to dodge the patrols. The entire ship seems to be rallied against him; Ben had forgotten how much he and Rey depended on Hux's honor to keep his significant number of allies in check during these maneuvers. Ben has never been popular, has never been the mouthpiece for the Order that Hux is. No wonder they are seizing the opportunity to turn on him like rabid dogs, curs let free at last from the strangling leash of fear.

Once, he would have torn them apart in his hatred. Now, all he feels is sorrow. Sorrow that _this_ is his legacy, that this is all that he will leave behind him when he leaves the Order. That this has been the sum total of his life's ambition. People turning on him in disgust and fear, eager to do away with him at the first chance.

No. This is not the only thing. Every instinct tell him the Knights are still alive, and he will not lose them to his own folly. They will not be sacrificial victims to appease Hux if he cannot lay hands on Ben.

The corridors stretch, seemingly endless, between himself and them. Desperate for strength, for wisdom, Ben reaches out once more.

This time, he recognizes Rey's voice.

 _You wouldn't believe_ , she'd laughed at him once, studying the plans of Abaloe's vessel, _how wastefully your ships are designed. All that extra space to carry your comms' cables? No wonder Star Destroyers guzzle fuel like camels at a waystation!_

The cables, running through the walls. Rey had confounded his pursuit…by hiding in the walls.

Once, his pride would have stopped him. Once, he would have preferred to die in open combat before lowering himself to sneak like a rat in the vents.

But his life was not all that mattered to him. Not anymore.

He finds a console, pulls it out, and folds his bulk into the wall, wiggling into the space like a molting caterpillar.

Whether the laughter in his head comes from Rey, Luke, or the Force itself, he can't tell.


	36. XXXVI

**XXXVI**

Rey fights like a cornered dog, slavering, rabid, lashing out with her fists and the Force. It's useless. Hux has enough lackeys to bury her in bodies, and if only one in five lands a blow on her, it's finally enough. They treat her the only way they can; by putting her down, without mercy. The blow to her head dazzles her, makes her see mirages like she's lost in Jakku's sinking sands, and she sinks down, down, down, until she can't make any resistance when they stick her with enough sedative to calm a charging wyldbeest.

The world slows to a crawl, her body weighted as if she were pushing through mud. The Force recedes from her, too far to reach, or even consider. In slow motion, colors blurring before her stricken eyes, Rey collapses to the ground and lies still, shallow breaths panting in her throat her last remaining sign of life.

Hux watches it all, every brutal minute of it. Rey swears he grins every time a drop of her blood rains onto the deck.

"Bring her," he orders them. Rey can't even get her feet underneath her; they have to drag her, toes rattling up the stairs, to a little operations room above the hanger of his ship. Hux indicates a chair and Rey's captors deposit her there like a sack of grain. Her head rings and she grasps the armrests to avoid tipping onto the floor and spilling open at the seams.

Hux stands, looking down. Always looking down.

Rey spits blood in the direction of his boots, grinning in momentary satisfaction as he flinches back. It won't be the last time, she swears, that she'll make him sorry for his smug superiority.

"You are in a precarious position, Lady Rey," the title is a sneering insult, "Don't make things worse for yourself."

"I'm alone in a room with you. Things can't get any worse." Still, discretion being the better part of valor, she swallows the blood that's building in the back of her throat. She must have bitten her cheek, or maybe she's lost a tooth; her whole mouth reeks of copper.

"Please know your sentiments are entirely reciprocated. Yet, do remember you are alive only because I wish it."

An excellent point. "And why do you _wish it_? My being alive can't gain you anything. Once Kylo Ren knows what you've done it me," it feels like a betrayal to call him that, but Rey knows Hux won't be intimidated by _Ben_ , "he'll tear you to pieces. If you're lucky."

"Foolish girl," he _tsks_ in mock pity, "You haven't yet grasped the severity of your situation, have you?"

Rey can't think; her ears are ringing too loudly, drowning out any semblance of coherent thought. She reaches for an expression of careless defiance, but at that moment she sneezes through her broken nose and howls with pain.

At least her pitiful state is too gross for Hux to grin about.

"Your traitorous stratagem provided me—and the other Marshals, by the way—with the perfect plan. After all, you and your usurping master are surrounded by enemies. How could you be so idiotic as to suppose I would throw all my power away in a treaty with a handful of insignificant Force users? No. You may be powerful, but what is power if it is not to be controlled? Ren and his Knights were only useful insofar as Snoke leashed them. And _you_ , desert rat," he croons, "have never had any value at all."

 _That's not true_ , she wants to snap, but she has no strength for it. She has no strength for anything…not even to strangle a tiny, traitorous voice inside her that whispers that Hux is right, that she's nothing, and nobody, and no one would ever care whether she lived or died. Why would they? Her own parents threw her away.

He sees his victory and presses his advantage like a constricting serpent putting pressure on a shattered bone.

"Little thing," he murmurs, "How Ren inflated you with his false promises! It must have seemed like paradise, going from the lowest of the low to whore of the First Order's Supreme Leader! But you know it could never have lasted. Even Ren would have tired of you at last."

Rey can bear insults to herself, but she won't let this piece of bantha shit say a word against Ben.

"That's not true," the words grate against her ribs. "You kriffing liar."

"Hmm. Well, you'll never know. My men are staking Ren's head on the _Primacy's_ bridge as we speak. Perhaps, when we return, you can ask it."

Her heart goes cold within her, a lump of ice that hasn't the life to beat. Mustering all her power, every ounce of will, she silently screams his name across the galaxy.

There's a faint sense of acknowledgement, but nothing else. She can't tell if he's there or not.

Her head reels and sinks forward on her chest. For a moment, her agony and despair crash in with such intensity she might be standing unguarded on the edge of a hurricane.

"Why do you care for him so? He never had any intention of keeping his promises to you, I can tell you that. You forget, I knew Ben Solo when Snoke first brought him into the Order. He may once have been a Jedi, but his heart always craved power. He might have shared it with you, but he never would have relinquished it altogether. There will never be a utopian, democratic galaxy, not while men are men and their hearts are—"

She cuts him off with a groan, equal measures pain, exasperation, and scorn. "Shut up. I'm not a sounding board for your damn speeches. I don't _care_."

"You might, if I told you I had a place for you in the reformed First Order."

Lifting her head is a titanic struggle, but she makes it. His expression is hard to parse; perhaps because her blackened eyes are rapidly swelling shut.

"I don't care," she repeats, grinning as fury turns his sallow skin jaundiced as old cloth.

"You are a scavenger. Surely one who lives by such means has no quarrel with remaining alive by whatever methods she can?"

Rey's eyes drift close. In the red, burning darkness of her beaten mind, she tries again to reach for Ben. It's weak, it's pitiful, it's every insult Hux could possibly throw at her, but she wants him. She longs for his voice, for the sense of him, more than she's ever wanted anything in this accursed world. If he's gone…is Hux right? Can she do anything it takes to save her own life? Could she live on as an automaton in whatever role he plans for her, breathing, eating, and walking, when her heart is entirely absent?

"General?" It's a new voice, muffled and processed—a stormtrooper's. "There's a squad of Resistance fighters approaching. We've been hailed by," he pauses, "Commander Dameron, sir."

"Well, well. Let's give Dameron fodder for his jokes, shall we? Bring her."

Rey is lifted, carried, out the door and down the stairs, head jolting with every step. It's impossible to distinguish anything now but the broadest outlines of the things around her, and the sedative is swirling in her bloodstream, deadening everything else. Words rumble around her, midnight thunder, and she can't catch any words at all.

But the face on the viewscreen is large enough, even for her eyes to see. Poe's own widen as he sees her—or what must look like a mashed clay doll of her, by now—and he says something to Hux that swears of vengeance and bloody death.

 _He can't, he can't_. Rey doesn't know much, but she knows he can't. She's already taken, already lost, and if Hux has a plan for her, at least she'll stay that way. She can wait.

"Get to Ben!" the words scream up her throat, scraping her raw, turning her inside-out.

"Poe!" they're injecting her again, the world is shrinking to a pinpoint of brilliant certainty, and she only has one breath to inhale and cry one last, desperate time:

" _Get Ben!"_


	37. XXXVII

**XXXVII**

Ben understands now why he had such a difficult time tracking Rey through the innards of Starkiller Base.

Maintenance ducts are not intended for any creature of average size, and they certainly aren't meant for him, who feels gangly and oversized even in the middle of a field.

He heaves himself ahead, squeezing his shoulders together behind his back, inching forward like shit through a bowel. Sweat pours down his forehead, blinding him with the sharp sting of salt in his eyes, and every agonized beat of his heart seems thunderous in the tiny space. Worse than the physical discomfort is his inability to make a sound in protest; sometimes he passes within inches of searching patrols and so much as a grunt would give him away.

Sneaking is sensible, but he could never stand it. Give him a straight fight any day, even if a straight fight would be suicide.

Ben knows he wouldn't be doing this if only his own life were on the line. But Rey, his Knights…he cannot throw his life away if it means a chance to save them.

So, he persists. He has no other choice, no better way.

And it's working…or it seems to be. From his own sense of the ship's interior and the increasing sounds of blaster fire, he must be on the right track.

The Knights know what to do. Unless they, like he, were caught off-guard, they'd have barricaded themselves into their sanctum, behind layers of reinforced durasteel doors, impervious to any executive override save Ben's own. Of course, all the durasteel and forcefields in the world won't keep them safe forever, but it will buy them time.

Ben only hopes it won't buy them so much time that they'll do something desperate before he gets there.

Finally, he is above the entrance to the Knights' training room, at the intersection of three corridors jammed with stormtroopers and an assortment of mounted blasters, each one firing bolt after bolt at the sealed door. Already it's a mass of melting steel, hot enough to make him pant in the superheated duct carrying away the metallic smoke and residue. His breath rasps hard in his throat.

If he'd fought his way here, it would hardly have made a difference. He has no idea how he's going to make it through this gauntlet. All those guns, focused on one point, pounding it into dust—

He's seen this before. He's _done_ this before. And, in a wave of inspiration that washes over him like a wave of cool, soothing water, he knows precisely what to do.

Yes, the Knights are important. But Hux knows where they are. He _doesn't_ know where to find Ben. And without Ben's head, his claim to the throne is spurious at best.

Ben wishes he could be on Snoke's throne for this. There will be little enough distance between himself and his projections, but for his plan to work he'll need to harness more power than he ever has before, with more _control_ than he's practiced in decades.

Still…somehow, he knows. This _will_ work.

He only needs to focus. Breathe. Find the space between breaths. The balance beyond him, within him. The perfect harmony of the Force.

The voice within him has blended with his Uncle's. Yet this realization doesn't enrage him, though it would have mere months ago. No. Now, it's soothing. As though Luke is standing behind him, hands on his shoulders, as he used to do those many, many years ago in meditation at the Jedi Temple. Before fear and rage twisted them both beyond recognition.

Like a child, Ben trusts. He reaches out.

And the Force is there.

Shouts echo from below.

"It's the Supreme Leader!"

"Kylo Ren!"

" _After him_!"

The heavy bombardment fire on the door stutters to a halt as flustered commanders reorient the cannons to fire on Ben's projections, already fleeing down the corridors. No one realizes yet that there are more of him than there should be; the bounty on his head must be so high that no one can see anything but the credits he represents. Ben sends his shadows fleeing, panicked, and the sight of it is too much to withstand.

In a mad dash, three-quarters of the stormtroopers abandon their objective to chase the bigger prize. The twenty that remain are nothing.

No definite cry goes up as Ben drops into their midst, lightsaber slashing three of them in half and decapitating another on the backswing. By the time he reaches the last soldier, he's abandoned even the idea of defending himself, and dies without a hand raised on his behalf. It sickens Ben, actually sickens him, to kill a defenseless man, but the Knights are his overriding priority. Any weakness here might doom them all.

Nevertheless, even the strain of this minor battle weakens his hold on his projections. Down the labyrinth of corridors, two of them flicker into nothing. He has minutes, if that, before they are besieged again.

Ben punches in his override code and slips into the gym, narrowly missing Ballah's enormous two-handed swing and Meela's barrage of follow-up swipes that tear two fine lines in the fabric of his tunic.

He can't fault their preparedness, nor does he waste time objecting to his near-assassination. "Gather your weapons and come with me. We'll seal the doors behind us and they won't know we've gone. We have to be on a ship and out of here before they get into that room."

"You shouldn't have come back for us," Nüe says, wide eyes and pale face beaming with the absolute faith of an postulant before his god. "They want you more than any of us. We would've been—"

"They don't get their hands on a single one of us," Ben clasps the boy by one skinny shoulder and grips to steady his trembling hands. His voice drops in deadly earnest as he mutters, "Not one. I need all of you with me. Now come on."

They steal back into the hallway and one by one jump into the ducts overhead, clambering out of sight with a long and filthy list of muttered curses. The ducts are no more comfortable now that more of them are in there, but Ben doesn't mind. They squeeze through the tubes, following Nüe's lead as he navigates, intersection by intersection, to the closest hangar bay.

"Boss?" Ballah whispers, "even if we get a ship, where are we going to go? The whole Order will be looking for us. We can't rescue Lady Rey alone."

"We won't be alone," Ben replies. His answer doesn't comfort him; of all the trials he knows he will face to find and rescue Rey, this one will be like burning alive over a slow fire.

But he will do it. For her, he will do anything.

"Who? Who will want to help us?"

Two words drop from Ben's lips like bombs on scorched earth:

"My mother."


	38. XXXVIII

**XXXVIII**

They find each other almost immediately, despite the size of the galaxy. The Resistance has clearly sensed failure in their best-laid plans and are scrambling to recover something from the ashes. That what they hoped to recover is obviously Rey is clear from the instant Ben sets foot aboard the _Falcon_ without her.

Poe glares at him as though he's a fresh moof-cow pat soiling the decking, although the _Falcon_ is so filthy he wouldn't be out of place. His disdain means nothing and hurts not at all. Chewie's expression is inscrutable, but if he's _not_ thinking of the last time he saw Ben face-to-face, running his best friend—and Ben's own father—through with a lightsaber, then it would be a miracle. Ben knew better than to face Chewie when he held him prisoner on Psyllia. He would rather not think of that mistake ever again.

It haunts him like a poltergeist, a chill of icy fear in his heart. Ben cannot quail, not for an instant, even though he'd rather melt into the walls rather than face Chewie's disappointment. Wrath would be one thing. He still bears, and will always bear, the scars of Chewie's wrath. He knows the Wookie would have killed him if he could have, in that instant of blind, furious rage after he slaughtered Han in cold blood. Ben has wished more than once that Chewie had succeeded in shooting him off that bridge, to plummet to his death alongside his father.

But this cold, congealed silence…this disappointment pregnant with regret. This is unbearable.

He can't apologize. He can't even make a motion in that direction. He cannot be weak; weakness now will lose him Rey.

"Where are we headed?"

They've abandoned the ship he and the Knights stole from the _Primacy_ , left it to drift as a decoy through the void. Hopefully, the Order will spend a day or so tracking it only to find it empty. Time is all that matters now.

"To our closest base. We'll be there in a few hours."

"We can't go running for safety," Ben snarls, "We have to find Rey. I can give you our security codes, keys for tracking cloaked ships…wherever they have her, we can hunt them down."

"Hey," Poe meets his anger with plenty of his own to spare, "You're not the only one here who cares about what happens to her. Don't forget; _you_ signed off on this whole plan. So don't take it out on me if it's gone wrong! We're in charge now, and we're going to regroup and plan before making any more idiotic moves."

"Idiotic—" he can't breathe. The very air around them warps and for an instant the ship creaks at every bolt. He imagines Poe's skull splattering inward like a grape, running blood and gore down his shoulders and dripping to the floor.

Chewie roars as Poe's face pales and he clutches at his head, wincing. The Wookie strides forward, putting his great body between Ben and Poe, pulling his weapon and making it crystal clear that he intends to use it if Ben doesn't stop.

It takes him everything, but he does. The next moment, a wave of shame makes him feel as sick as Poe looks. His gorge rises in his throat as he realizes that, without Chewie's intervention, he would have been guilty of murdering a man who might have helped him save Rey. Poe Dameron—Rey's friend, and his mother's favorite. In an instant without thought, in a moment of blind fury, he would have hurt everyone he cared about…and for what? What will revenge get him now?

He breathes. "My…apologies, Dameron," he offers, voice scrubbed of emotion. He can't bring himself to say 'sorry', even though he knows Poe deserves honest contrition. But every instinct within him, fortified over decades of Snoke's abuse, screams at him not to offer more than he must. He needs to keep his allies, but he does not need to let them know his burning desire to save Rey at any cost.

At every cost.

Poe face reflects the same struggles—between telling Ben to shove his apology so far up his ass it comes out his throat again, or accepting it with grace. Finally, he settles for a rough nod and turns away. At the door of the rec room, he pauses, looking back over his shoulder with a grim smirk.

"The general's waiting for you in the med bay. I'll tell her you're on your way, shall I?"

The world screeches to a halt, and Ben seriously considers flinging himself out the airlock. It's a fleeting instinct, one he smothers as best he can. Nothing shows on his face as he nods acknowledgement at Poe's jab. So, his first reunion with his mother is already to be tarnished by his inability to manage his violent emotions. He is to be known to her by another vicious rumor…the more vicious, of course, because it's true.

He has made no progress. He is the same beast he has been ever since betraying Skywalker so many years ago.

"I will come with you," Ballah, his right hand, his rock, murmurs staunchly from his side.

"No," he can't bear the thought of anyone else witnessing this, when he himself can barely stand the idea. "No. I'll go alone. The general and I have much to discuss," his lips are numb as he forces out the lie.

Ballah's expression is stolid, revealing nothing, asking nothing. Yet there is a feeling that ripples between them of aching sympathy. The Force is strong between them; strong a bond as between brothers. Yet Ben draws back from Ballah's sympathy; it scorches him like acid. He doesn't deserve a brother. Not after what he's done to the rest of his family.

He steps past Chewie and down the _Falcon_ 's familiar corridors, walking like a condemned man steps to the gallows, feeling each foot touch the ground as though it will never lift again. Yet he goes on, rigid as an automaton and wishing to be just as unfeeling. Indeed, his mind and heart are such a riot of emotion that it overloads him; he feels nothing because he is feeling _everything_.

For the first time since Rey was torn from him, he's glad he can't feel her. What happens next is his burden to bear.

Leia—the General—his mother—looks up as he crosses the threshold. They stare at each other for an unbearable time, silently reaching out to each other across decades, though mere feet separate them now. Either one of them could reach out a hand and they could touch. Either one of them could drop their defenses and their spirits could mingle.

Neither of them do. Too many years have come between them. Too much silence, too much fear. Too much pain.

Ben shrinks back, staring at the floor. This is only what he deserves; he has no right to expect anything other. Yet whatever the General will do to him, he cannot let her forget that _he's_ not important. Only Rey matters now.

"General," he begins, astounded that his voice isn't a child's again, high and soft and fragile, begging for his mother's pardon for taking an ounce of her attention, an inch of her time, "I have information that will help you find Rey; I ask nothing for myself—you can put me in the brig right away—but I ask that my Knights will be allowed to help you find her. You will need their powers. I will vouch for their behavior, they are my—"

"Ben," she interrupts, voice hoarse with age and tears, "It's all right, Ben."

And then she throws herself open to him, welcoming him into her very heart. Her heart that bleeds for him, that sings to him, that longs to hold him to her as she should have done every night in his childhood. The heart that blames herself, that loves and loves and loves her son who—unknowingly—tried to find love where he might, since he did not feel it from her. The heart that tells him, whispers to him, calls to him, that it has loved him and does love him and _will_ love him until every star in their galaxy goes supernova.

Ben doesn't feel himself collapse; he only feels the shattering impact of his knees on the deck. He doesn't feel tears falling from his eyes; he only feels their heat on his skin. And he doesn't feel his mother's arms around him; he only knows that she's holding him and he's holding her and it's everything he's ever wanted and nothing he deserves.

And in the overwhelming tidal wave of her love that lifts him up and drowns him, he dissolves and comes together. The last remnants of Kylo float away and he is Ben. Her Ben. His father's Ben. The child gone astray, come home at last.

Neither of them speak; there's nothing to say when their hearts and minds are in perfect unspoken communion. But Leia continues nonetheless.

"My son," she whispers, voice thick with tears, "my baby boy. I'm sorry. Do you hear me?" she drags his neck down, mutters into his ear, "I'm so sorry. I was so afraid for you…my fear, _mine_ , did all this. I'm so sorry."

He can't believe this. Has he died? Is he dead, misfiring brain giving him a hallucinatory heaven he doesn't deserve?

"No," he replies, though it's more a grunt than a word, "Mother, I—"

She sobs. He pauses. Has he hurt her?

"I never thought," she draws back from him and he sees every line on her weathered, exhausted face, "I never thought," and suddenly an inner light animates her like a star, beaming out a warm benediction, "You would ever call me 'mother' again."

"Mother," he can barely speak; it squeaks out of his throat and now he _is_ a child again. "I killed him. I killed Father."

"You did," she says, quiet, grave. "Are you sorry for it?"

She always asked him that, for every infraction. Stolen cookie? Skinned knee? Torn clothes?

 _Are you sorry? Will you do it again?_

 _Yes, Mother. No, Mother._

"Yes," he whimpers. "Yes. If I could die to bring him back, I would."

"I know," she soothes him, rocks him on her shoulder, "But he wouldn't want that. He told me he would bring you back to me. And he did."

"It wasn't worth it."

"It _was_. Ben, you are our boy. Han loved you more than anything in the universe. He was just rotten about showing it. Like me," her voice is exhausted, rueful. "We both thought it would be so easy, raising a child. We were wrong, and you suffered for it. The galaxy suffered for it."

"I should have known better," he can't let her take all the blame; it isn't fair. "I should have realized what Snoke was doing. It wasn't until Rey came that—" he pauses, breath catching hard, "Rey. We have to get her back."

"We will," Leia—Mother—assures him, confidence blooming on her face now that they have a problem to solve, "No one is going to take our family apart. Not ever again."


	39. XXXIX

**XXXIX**

Rey's drifting on a tidal sea, body heavy and slow, at the mercy of the drugs that flow through her blood. She has a sensation of movement, but can't tell whether it comes from within or without her. Is she being carried, taken somewhere? Or is she lying still, only turning over and over in her mind? Lassitude infects not only her muscles, but also her mind. What does it matter if she is helpless? What is there for her to do? What _can_ she do?

Her arms jerk. Bantha _shit_ , she sneers to herself. If there's one thing Rey has _never_ been, it's helpless. Even as a child, she had known that Jakku would eat something soft and frail, and had hardened herself like a scorpion. Always on the defensive. Always ready to lash out. And even if the sedatives in her blood are strong, she's _stronger_.

Stubborn, spiteful resolve connects her to the Force, a deep pulse inside her that's muffled by drugs, but not stifled entirely. It's always been at the core of her, this white, burning light, and it's only been fear and self-doubt that's kept it from her all this time. Now, a breath is enough to kindle the spark within her to a roaring flame that burns through every atom and particle of her until consciousness and control are hers to command once more.

Rey jolts awake, tugging hard against the chains that restrain her before she recalls herself and keeps still. She might have the Force on her side, but she still has no idea where she is or how many First Order thugs she'll have to plow through before getting somewhere safe. Surprise is an advantage she can't stand losing.

She's not in a cell. That's the first surprise. Her wrists and ankles are chained to the posts of a bed which is both wider and more plush than a traitor to the Order deserves. Not that her surroundings are luxurious—the room is a basic chamber, with a corner 'fresher unit concealed behind frosted glass—but still more comfortable than she's been used to, even in the Resistance.

It's this element of comfort, of _care_ , that chills her to the bone.

Suddenly she remembers Hux's promise—or was it a threat?—that he might have a place for her in the First Order.

Panic is hard to withstand. It presses up into her throat like vomit until it threatens to spill over into screams or tears or something even more embarrassing. But Rey can control herself; she _must._ She takes a deep breath and tries to reach for meditative calm, but has no chance.

The door slides open, in a metallic rasp like the last gasp from a slit throat. Crisp footsteps cross the room towards her, and Hux's shadow falls long and sharp across the bed. The door seals them in together.

Rey holds herself very, very still. Like any animal before a predator, she waits until he makes the first move to gauge her own reaction.

Hux has no need to draw out the tension. In fact, he seems more relaxed than Rey's ever seen him, even when he revealed his deception the last time they spoke. He slouches on his feet, hands in his pockets, a loose smile playing at the corners of his razor-thin lips. A quick sniff confirms her hunch; he's absolutely sloshed. Sharp, acrid synthale fumes tickle her nose and threaten to make her sneeze.

"Welcome back, scavenger," he rocks on his feet, leaning over her face, "I must say, even covered in bruises, you are still quite lovely. Ren was not as misguided as I first thought him."

Fury clogs her throat, which is fortunate, because it helps maintain her silence. Her jaw clenches until she fears her teeth will crack, but she doesn't say a word.

"Hmm. Nothing to say? A compliment must be hard to understand; I doubt Ren knows how to pay one. Well, perhaps that will make you more amenable to what I have to say."

He shoves her leg aside, chain rattling, and sits at the edge of the bed, body awkwardly pressed against hers. This time, Rey doesn't restrain herself, but her kick has only a few inches of arc and probably feels more like an irritated poke than a blow.

"Calm yourself," Hux's fingers close just above the shackle on her ankle and a shudder creeps up her spine. "There is no need for this. I am not as pathetic as our fearless leader was. I have no intention of touching you until you consent."

This is too much. "Then take your hand _off me_ ," her snarl accompanies a pointed glare that, if she had her way, would sear the flesh from his bones.

He smirks and lingers a beat too long before his fingers withdraw, one by one. A greasy slug trail residue seems to drip from her skin, and she swallows. She won't be scared, she doesn't need to be scared, but the way he's looking at her…

"Of course, my lady," he drawls, "I would never dare insult you."

The curse that she spits at him only makes him laugh.

"Whatever you think is going to happen, I can guarantee you now, it _never_ will," she says, neck straining forward like a rabid dog straining to bite. "I don't care what you have to offer me."

"Not even your life?"

"Not even that."

"What about the life of your lover?"

Her heart stops. "Why would I care about that? Kylo Ren abducted me after threatening to kill my friend. He is—he _was_ —the master of a group I despise. _And_ you told me you were staking his head on the bridge of the _Primacy_. Do you mean to tell me you _haven't_ killed him yet? To use as a bargaining chip for _me_?"

"Don't lie to me. I was Snoke's right hand for a reason. An enemy would not look at Ren as you did. And it was clear he would have thrown himself in front of the entire Order for you. Are you so unique among women to tell me that such a sacrifice would not sway you?"

"I was his ally," Rey grinds out, annoyed that Hux thinks so meanly of her—and her gender—while simultaneously annoyed at herself for being irritated at whatever Hux thinks of her. "His willingness to undermine the Order was the only thing that drew us together. I have no feelings for him outside of that. If you want to kill him, go ahead. He's useless to me now."

Hux sighs. "Well, that changes my plans…in no way whatsoever. Truly, you are a terrible liar. I enjoy working for my victories, but this is no challenge at all. So, you love Ren. You will do anything to keep him alive. We can agree on this, yes?"

She should not tell him the truth. She knows it. But she will not honor him with a lie, nor will she insult Ben by hiding her feelings a moment longer.

"Yes," she tastes blood as if the word cuts her mouth, "I love him. But I will not be your puppet for him. He would not want that, and _I_ would rather die."

"Perhaps you will," his confidence isn't shaken by her defiance, "and perhaps you won't. But I thank you for your honesty. I had not thought a creature like yourself capable of it."

"Someone like you could never understand honesty, or the pride that keeps a person honest. You spent your life licking Snoke's boots and would have done the same for Kylo Ren if he had not seen right through you."

"As I successfully double-crossed you, a brag that you or Ren _saw through me_ is a bit much to accept. However, let us move past this acrimony. There are far more pleasant things for us to discuss."

"I'm sure we have a different definition of 'pleasant'," Rey grumbles, but she doesn't argue. She still feels she's scored a hit, and a bit of confidence jumpstarts her heart into a frenetic, pounding rhythm. Her fingers and toes are warm, tingling with life, and if she were only free, she knows she could punch each one of Hux's pearly teeth down his throat.

If she were free—

Hux is not Force sensitive. If Ben were able to manipulate the Force right beneath Snoke's nose, surely she can do the same in front of Hux? Fine manipulation is not her strong suit, but…

She flops back against her pillow.

"Good," Hux pats her like a dog who's just performed a trick, "Now, let me tell you what I expect."

When Rey makes no objection, he continues.

"I expect you to become a loyal member of the Order, using your Force abilities as I require. In exchange, you will receive comfortable amenities and a small amount of personal freedom. When I am sure you can be trusted, and once the Resistance has been extinguished, you will begin finding other Force-sensitives in the galaxy. These you will bring to me, to recruit or destroy as I deem fit."

He clearly expects her to object to this, and Rey, not wanting to disappoint or betray her true intentions, abandons her attempt to map the inner workings of the lock mechanism of her shackles.

"You bastard," she injects venom into her words, but, like a toothless snake, has nowhere to sink them, "As if I would ever bring you children to corrupt."

"You say this now," he slides past her objection so easily that Rey knows he's rehearsed it, "but imagine years of isolation before you. Imagine only these four walls to return to at the end of each day. Tell me you wouldn't do anything for a friendly face, a kind voice."

His words insinuate themselves against her skin at the same time as his fingers come to rest once more against her leg, and Rey flinches. Does he know, does he know how long she spent alone, craving a friend, someone to talk to? He must; it's too pointed a threat to be random. Enraged, she lunges at him, not feeling the pain where the chains cut her wrists.

Hux laughs. "You see? There is no point in lying to me. I know your heart. Just as I know that, with time, you might crave more than just friendship," his grip tightens, and climbs.

Rey shrieks and thrashes, dislodging him by sheer force. "Don't you _dare_ touch me," she spits, "and if you really think I would _ever_ want _anything_ from you, you're more deranged than Snoke ever was."

He grins. "Well, I will not destroy your illusions yet. I will only leave you with the knowledge that if you refuse, you will never leave this room. Unless to attend your public execution."

With that, he rises, and Rey stifles a gasp. If he leaves, if he goes now, her window of opportunity will slam shut.

"Wait!" she cries, unfeigned desperation in her voice. At the door, he turns.

"Wait," and now she's begging, tears in her eyes and shame hot on her cheeks. "Don't leave me here."

"Poor little scavenger," he croons, oozing back across the room, "don't tell me you've already reconsidered?"

"I—I," she stammers, reaching out with all her senses, feeling the lock mechanism coming clear in her mind, "I don't know."

"Well," he stands over her, "I suppose I could give you…a month, shall we say, to make up your mind? Yes, a month of quiet, undisturbed reflection will be just what you need. I would not pressure a lady into anything she would not like."

He turns to leave. At that instant, the locks click open.

"Oh," Rey slides upright, silent as a cat, "I won't need a month."

He turns, smile arch and superior, and her right cross catches him there and knocks him senseless.

* * *

Hi everyone!

Sorry about the long absence. The beginning of this year has been very up in the air for me, and last week I actually moved to Taiwan after a whirlwind application process. Keeping my spirits even enough to write has been a challenge, so I hope you'll stay with me as I continue this fic and try to update regularly.

Since my main social is Tumblr and since no one is on Tumblr anymore, if you want to follow me on Instagram (nofearofwaves), Twitter (nofearofwaves) or friend me on Line (grecianviolet), I'm always happy to chat!


	40. XL

**XL**

"The First Order is withdrawing a significant portion of their fleet to the moons around Al-altair I and II. From telemetry sliced during my assault on Admiral Hux's jump ship, this is where we believe he and the other Marshals are holding Rey. For those of you that flew with me on Operation Skyhook two years ago, you'll know what a mission in the Al-altair system means," a rueful chuckle goes up between a choice number of listening pilots, some of whom Ben recognizes from operational briefings in the past.

This room is full of those whom, for better or worse, he would have enjoyed seeing killed a mere few months prior. It makes for an unsettling experience; remnants of Snoke drip silent poison in his ear. _Take your saber. Kill them all. Cripple the Resistance beyond repair._

A chilly shiver grips his limbs. Snoke has no power over him any longer. Nor do his own shameful impulses, which would have driven him to do much the same thing once. Yet, he has to focus with all he is to unfasten his fingers from the hilt of his saber. He should not be here; he's still dangerous, a tangled potential of conflicting desires.

Poe continues, raising his voice to clear the whispers in the room. "For those of you that didn't, listen up. There are twelve moons that orbit between those two gas giants. Gravitational fields go nuts between 'em; you'll see how on your screens now. And it's hard to know who's coming out ahead of you or behind you at any given time. We'll be flying in small, tight packs. Which means we won't have a lot of supporting firepower on this one. Our bombers are too slow to maneuver into position, and our destroyers are going to jump in only to cover our asses if we can't get the job done. So if you're scouring the board for any big players, forget it."

Murmurs grow to grumbles. No one likes their odds.

With a wave of his hand, Poe summons their battle plan up on the briefing screen, red, green, and sickly yellow light dancing over troubled faces in the darkening room.

"It's four teams for this one, each composed of eight fighters. Rogue Group, you're under Jessika; Anchor, with Seeli; Viper with Nialym; and Hammer, you're with me. Check your briefings for your group assignments, and listen up."

Words flow past him in a torrent Ben has trouble isolating, just as if he were trying to catch a handful of water out of a flowing stream. Crimson light keeps slashing over isolated faces as though washing each one in a shower of blood. Ben doesn't believe in signs, but he does believe in the Force. He knows that the misgivings in his gut aren't idle jitters.

This mission is as much his doing as anyone's, yet he feels it is doomed.

"—Kylo Ren, who has provided vital intel for this mission. If you're worried about him watching your back," Poe's teeth glint in a shark's smile, "believe me when I say I understand. But he's on the team for this one…more specifically, he's on _my_ team. And with his knowledge of the First Order fleet's vulnerabilities, he's gonna be invaluable. Speaking of his knowledge, there's an addendum in the mission brief detailing each vessel's weaknesses and blind spots. Study up. Your exam begins in six hours, which, incidentally, is also when we'll be launching. Any questions?"

Silence. Not even a breath out of place. Each face is now resolute, determined. Ben hasn't seen such absolute faith even in the most fanatic of his stormtroopers. Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps he's just forgotten what hope—hope in a future unbound, liberated—truly looks like.

The Order, despite its promises to free the galaxy, was always just another system to dominate it. Even when Ben had longed to change it irrevocably with Rey, he had not thought about what that actually meant. Even in his wildest dreams, he had only visualized more of the same. Individuality restrained. Regimented. Controlled.

But the Resistance…

He had denounced it, and by extension, the Republic it swore to reinvent, as chaos. As people falling through the cracks. As an endless, bureaucratic struggle for each voice to be heard. But now he sees that the struggle is, and has always been, part of the equation. That the beauty of the Resistance is that someone can ask for volunteers for what may well be a suicide mission—a mission to save one life, just _one_ —and that there _will be volunteers_ nonetheless _._

For the first time, Ben contemplates the face of the Resistance with admiration and respect. Snoke's snide whispers fade from his mind as he understands, now as never before, why his plan to reshape the Order in his own image would have meant more despair for the galaxy.

Rey is right. His mother is right.

Even Poe Dameron is right. Though Ben may still cut his tongue out before admitting that to his face.

"You've got a lot on your mind," Leia murmurs to him as the pilots file out, "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really," he says.

"No? Because if you squeeze your saber any harder you're gonna crack the crystal. And we don't have time to hunt down a source of kyber, what with everything else going on."

"There are caves on Mustafar that still have some. That's where I found this."

"That hellscape? I don't really think you want another one from there, do you?"

Ben remembers his trials on Mustafar; the caustic heat, sulfuric stench, and choking atmosphere that made each breath feel like pebbles were grinding in his lungs. 'Hellscape' is a good word.

"No."

"So," Leia slides her arm around his, riding out his instinctive flinch, "talk to me."

"I…" formulating his thoughts verbally was still a challenge, yet he cannot bring himself to be as open with his mother as he is with Rey, "I don't know where to start."

"Wherever you want to. Do you think _I_ make sense half the time?"

"I remember," his lips twitch, "You rehearsed your speeches twenty times in front of the mirror so you'd stop yourself going on tangents or making snide remarks."

"Exactly," Leia's smile is wicked, "and I always did anyway. So you don't have to worry about sounding like a lunatic if you can't put your thoughts together. Not around me, at least. Where do you think you got it from?"

"I don't know. I don't think I thought about it. I," it's hard to admit, so hard, "I don't think I thought about a lot of things."

"And now you are?"

"Now…I wish I had. I wish I'd thought about a lot of things. Because I think I've been wrong."

Leia fixes him with a searching gaze, which, despite her narrowed lips, doesn't stink of judgement. Instead, she tugs him out of the briefing room, down a corridor, and into her ready room, where a droid is already setting a tray of tea. It was always her ritual, he remembers, to have a cup of tea and a cookie—or a handful—after stressful meetings.

That was where he would wait for her, as a child. And where he caught most of her wrath, by eating all the cookies off her plate. He ate them for her wrath, her notice, because without something to fix her thoughts on him they would still be wherever she'd left them last. With whatever men and women she'd just ordered to their probable deaths.

This time, there are two cups on the tray, and more than enough shortdough cookies—sprinkled with grains of raw sugar that sparkle like jewels—for them both.

Leia pours for him and then herself, but it's only after her first long sip, settled in her chair with a cookie ready for dunking, that she says, "If I told you about all the things I'd been wrong about, we'd be here until the heat death of the universe. Tell me the worst."

"I never believed in the Resistance. Even when you defeated us—them," he corrects himself hurriedly, not wishing to ally himself with their enemy, however inadvertently. He is no longer one of them. "I thought it was an aberration. The Order seemed the only way to give structure to the galaxy. Even when I offered Rey the chance to rule it with me, and bring with her anyone she wished, it was only," he swallows, "a lure. To have her with me. Not to change the Order."

Leia nods, sipping again. "And now?"

Ben stands, tea untouched, and strides across the room. It's no wider than his 'fresher on the _Primacy_ and he can barely manage two full paces in either direction before hitting the walls. Still, he paces, a _hara_ cat in a cage, baring his dulled teeth against an imaginary crowd endlessly staring at him.

"The Resistance is chaos. The Republic was worse. It allowed the Order to rise and did nothing."

"It did what it could," Leia corrects him, mild. "Its embargoes crippled early efforts to build its fleet. It was only when Hux's family threw their money into lobbying swing systems into changing their votes on those embargoes that we really started losing ground."

Ben shrugs. "The Order still rose. How can a just system allow that?"

"A just system allows room for differing ideologies—even ones it disagrees with. What if the Order had just been enacted in the systems that voted to participate? Was there any way for us to know that it wouldn't abide by its own rules?"

"I don't know," he growls, "but it didn't. How many people have suffered because of it?"

"Many. Does the rise of the Order tell you that the Republic was therefore worthless? Was the Republic ordering mass executions of its political rivals, strip-mining whole systems, impressing generations of children into armies?"

"No."

"No, it didn't. I can tell you it didn't, because Dallai Ciaren talked for twenty-six hours in filibuster to prevent mining restrictions from being loosened. Capital punishment was never allowed for political crimes by Republic charter. And your own father oversaw demilitarization efforts across six systems, part of which was a blanket ban of children under eighteen from joining even local militias."

Being confronted, even gently, by his own ignorance is humiliating. Ben's anger, stunted from an argument he now sees he cannot carry forward, coils in his throat, choking him.

Leia sees it. "Part of the Order's appeal is that it offers clarity. It told you the Republic was inefficient and that it wasn't. That it could—and would—act to fix problems. I understand. The Republic _was_ an endless knot of intrigue and back-alley deals. It did a lot of harm by its inability to act without light years spent in committee. But if you ignore the good it did, even the nuanced, complicated good, then you ignore all that the Order never even _tried_ to do."

"I'm starting to understand that now," Ben says, exhaustion replacing the rage in his muscles. Being driven forward by anger is helping him less and less, these days. He sits, digging his clenched fists into his knees, hunched over too big for his chair and feeling as coltish and awkward as ever in his mother's presence. "But I believed in Snoke's lies about the Order for so many years…I don't know what my life will be without them."

"It will be what you make it," Leia reaches out, weathered palm soft on the jutting bones of his fist. "But…get ready. It will never been exactly what you want. What you want will change unimaginably, with time."

"I don't like uncertainty."

"Who does?" Leia shrugs, picking up a cookie. It disappears in two enormous bites, and she smiles at him with full cheeks. "Mmm. Take one. They're your favorites."

They're no longer his favorites, but he doesn't tell her that. He's not good with emotions, but even he knows it would be no kindness to strip her of this comforting lie.

It's a nuanced, complicated good. Perhaps he understands that now, too.


	41. XLI

**XLI**

Rey makes it out of the room before her gorge rises and she vomits, sedative mixing with sour bile in her throat to puddle on the floor. For a long moment she stands there, weak as water, shaking on unsteady knees and blind to everything around her. But she can't help it. The only way out is through.

Cold sweat beads on her forehead as the fit passes, and Rey heaves herself and her stomach together, staggering forward. With the sedative clearing from her system, the world around her sharpens into bright focus. She can see clearly at last; what's more, she can feel the Force again. It's at her fingertips, but her fingertips are blunted, numbed somehow. When she tries to connect with her power, it's sluggish, a handful of muddy sand oozing from her grip. The drugs must not all have cleared from her system yet.

So. No Force, no friends, no weapons. Not a lot to work with, but Rey's been in this position before. She just wishes her head weren't aching quite so fiercely. Everything is so bright it shimmers like a desert mirage, leading her astray.

One hand on the wall, Rey limps around the corner, staying close to the gray walls in some vain hope that her dark tunic will help her blend in. Hux seems to have held her in the crew dormitories, for there are rows of identical mirror-shine doors on either side marching along the corridor, and all of them are sealed shut. Small favors.

She needs to get to the bridge unnoticed, and the easiest way to do that is through air ducts or Jeffries tubes. But the vents for the former are all the way on the ceiling and she hasn't spotted access to the latter. She's a sitting—or in this case, limping—scrap vulture.

And like any grounded vulture, she's vulnerable when caught.

"Hey! You!"

 _Kriff._

"Hey," she says, smiling and giving a halfhearted wave, "Sorry about the mess back there. I was just gonna call a droid to clean it up."

"Yeah, that was gross," the watch officer says, nose wrinkled, "I already got the droid. You didn't notice the comms unit on the wall nearby?"

"No," Rey swallows, "I'm...not feeling that well. Which I guess you could tell."

"Go to the med bay. I need everyone functioning at peak efficiency, especially with our engagement with the Resistance coming up," her eyes narrow, scanning Rey's uniform. "Where's your rank? What's your position? Don't make me cite you for your uniform too."

"Oh," she fumbles, "I'm part of General Hux's detachment. We came on board a little while ago. You might not have seen me before."

"No, you're not. _I_ was part of Hux's escort. I don't remember seeing you among the five other officers he brought with him," she draws her blaster, "You must be the scavenger girl he kept under such close guard."

Rey moves fast, feinting left and darting right, ducking underneath the woman's arm and barreling into her stomach. Moving so fast makes the world spin around her so when they both hit the floor Rey almost vomits again. She does gag when the officer gets a knee into her stomach and jams the mouth of her blaster under Rey's chin.

"Don't move," she growls, "or I'll blow your brains out, orders or no."

She fumbles for her belt communicator and the blaster wavers for an instant. With her left hand, Rey knocks it away so the officer's blast melts a hole in the floor rather than her head. With her right, she strangles the woman with her collar and rolls them over. With a two-handed shove that drains the last drops of energy from her body, Rey slams the woman's head against the deck once, twice, and a third time before she finally groans and lies still.

Weary and shaking, Rey gathers herself to her feet, resuming her course down the hall. Then a moment of consideration stills her steps. Sighing, she turns, bending to grab the woman by one limp arm. At least the floor is smooth, which makes dragging her back to the room where Hux lies similarly unconscious much easier.

She ties up the watch officer with the pair of cuffs that chained her hands, but not before stripping her of her coat, trousers, and boots. Changing clothes in the presence of two First Order officers she's bashed senseless is an experience, but one she can't fully process. But however unpleasant—and unintentionally humorous—it all is, at least she has a disguise now.

Stepping into the hall, Rey straightens her shoulders and pulls her lips tight in her best approximation of the watch officer's arrogant sneer before striding off down the hall...striding, that is, until each step reverberates in her head like a mallet on steel. Then, she creeps.

At least she creeps with purpose. Like a snail. Or a worm. Or some other creepy-crawly thing with more determination in its floppy little body than brains.

At the end of the hall she runs into a patrol, but one glance at her plaque of assorted ranks and honors snaps their gazes forward. She nods to their salutes and darts off down another passageway the moment they turn their backs.

Jeffries tubes, Jeffries tubes, how in hell do they maintain the electrical systems on this boat if they can't _access_ them? Her disguise has got her this far but she's not at all certain she can maintain it if anyone else so much as breathes in her direction. Rey's not used to being so exposed. Despite the heavy wool of her jacket, she feels like she's wandering around naked.

For one wild minute, Rey blames _herself_ for the ship's design. After all, last time she did make fools of the Order by hiding in Starkiller Base's overly-complex innards. How embarrassing for them if they hadn't learned from their mistakes!

She can't laugh. The impulse comes from a hysterical knot within her that tightens with every step. She's going to be discovered, she knows she is, and it will be all her fault if she can't pull this off. All her fault if she can't help Ben and her friends...

Rey doubles over gagging, pain, nausea, and fear combining into a cocktail of total, panicked blackout.

"Oh, help," she whispers, at the end of her strength, "Help."

Help comes. It comes in a memory of Ben. Hadn't _he_ been at the end of his strength, down in the dregs where nothing but a desperate hope drew him to her? She had shared her power, her assurance with him then. And now...

Now, she feels him with her. Feels his power stealing into her veins. His power that was hers, returning to her with interest. Because nothing in the galaxy is lost; it all exists in the Force.

 _He's alive. Ben is alive._

Rey's feelings are too strong to be lies. She feels only truth in this certainty. He's alive, no matter what Hux says, no matter what the Order tried to do to him. He survived.

And now it's her turn to do the same. Because since Ben is alive, he's coming for her.

She's still weak, still hurt, still frightened. But she can do this; she can help him. She won't let him do all the hard work of rescuing her alone.

There's no time to sneak around. No time for subterfuge.

The Force surrounds her like armor, like an exoskeleton, and she is buoyed up by the strength that is her, that is Ben, that is everything in the universe working together for some greater good.

Nothing is going to stand in her way.

She marches towards the bridge, power rolling off her in waves. The guard that challenges her stands shaking his head in confusion as her glamour rolls off him. The platoon of stormtroopers doesn't even see her as she walks past, veiled in the Force. Officers fold like cards to the floor as she knocks them out with silent power, one by one.

Finally Rey is where she needs to be.

"I'm here on the orders of General Hux," she says, her power giving truth to her words in the minds of all those that listen, "He wants us out of this system immediately."

"But," a befuddled commander blinks, trying to clear her influence from his thoughts, "the Al-altair system is perfect for the General's plan. We can capture the Resistance ambush with no—"

"And what if," Rey thunders, "The General's objectives have changed, as they are wont to do? Give me your name and rank; when we are discovered by the Resistance where we sit, I will want to tell Hux who to blame."

"Forgive me," he cringes, "I will give the order. At once. Of course."

"Good," Rey says, taking the moment he turns away from her to lean against a console and sigh her relief. Just a minute more and their altered course will be a beacon to the Resistance. Ben will find her; he must.

"Belay that order!"

A blaster bolt catches her across her right shoulder, grazing a singed gash through her tunic. Rey dives beneath a console as sparks fly, crawling forward as bolt after bolt dogs her steps. The bridge erupts into a chaotic whirl of sparks and screams, smoke and panicked footsteps.

"Keep us on course," Hux roars, "and the rest of you...find the scavenger!"


	42. XLII

**XLII**

Rey crawls from console to console, followed by waterfalls of sparking metal and the acrid char of graphite and durasteel. Chaos reins above her as screams shatter the air into jagged fragments. An officer—nameless, faceless—shrieks as a stray blaster bolt melts her through the shoulder. She topples from her chair and thuds to the floor right in front of Rey, her terrified eyes rolling to white before she faints from the pain.

"Enough!" Hux's voice is high, unhinged. "Do you really think you can hide from me? Stand and face your death, scavenger!"

Rey huffs. "You keep calling me that. Is that supposed to be an insult?"

A stammering silence meets her. Finally, "Only you would not be ashamed of having led such a pointless, insignificant life."

It's too lame an attempt to offend her. "I take it this means there's no longer a place for me in your new Order?"

"Oh, there _will_ be a place for you, sca—" he cuts off the word and does not substitute another, "What I do to you after this will be known throughout the quadrant. Tales of your demise will keep systems in line from sheer horror alone, and..."

There's no point in listening to any more, nor does Rey think interjecting will do anything other than cut off the rapid stream of his monologue. The longer he talks the more time she has to figure something out.

Escape is out of the question. There are more stormtroopers at the door than sand mites on a fresh corpse, not to mention the force field generated by Hux's constant outflow of hot air. And with the ship's canny design leaving no wiggle room behind the scenes, there's no way out from this. Rey has faced death many times before, but cannot remember its specter ever feeling this close.

Rey cannot feel fear. Not now. It's pushing at the walls of her heart, corroding the lining of her stomach, compressing her lungs so she can't breathe, but she will not give it any room. Fear will destroy her mind, and without her mind there's no hope for her, let alone for the fleet. If she keeps her wits about her she can keep Hux and bay _and_ give the fleet time to catch wind of the Order's ambush and arrange their own strategy.

Crouched next to the fallen officer, Rey risks a quick glance upwards. Comms' panel. No good. Even if she could send a message, she has no idea where the Resistance is waiting. That said...

A spaceship is a delicate thing, requiring millions of cogs, both technological and biological to operate smoothly. Remove one key component and a whole system will fall apart. Leave one console unmanned and entire operations stutter to a halt. Especially in a system as hierarchical as the Order. No one would dare countermand an order from the bridge, even if the world were exploding around their ears.

So Rey sends an order, to all ships in the fleet:

 _Stand by._

"...and when the worms crawl out of your eyes, _everyone_ will know the power of the Order!"

Hux's note of ringing triumph lands with a dull thud. What he clearly intended to be the last stroke on a master plan of horrific revenge doesn't rattle Rey any more than one of Unkar Plutt's blustering threats. For a moment, there is no sound on the bridge but the heat-splintering of another control panel and Hux's heavy pants. She's meant to be out of her mind with fear, but something—a laugh—tickles her throat. She swallows it down.

Rey crouches, ready to push off and run.

"Oh no. Please don't. I'll do anything."

She launches herself forward, sliding out of sight under a bank of benches, fragments of detritus slicing open her skin as she skids along the floor. The hot rush of blood makes her suddenly dizzy.

"You—" blaster fire breaks out again, obliterating the comms' panel and—Rey hopes—any chance of them discovering the message she's sent until it's too late.

"Spread out! Find her!"

 _Kriffing hells._ Apparently there's a limit to how much he loves hearing himself talk.

Her time frame is now exponentially shorter.

* * *

Hammer Group slams out of lightspeed behind one of Al-altair's many tiny moons, their proximity sensors shrieking warnings. For a moment, even Ben struggles to fall into the complicated gravity well around the planetoid, his ship heaving at the controls like a bucking horse.

"Paavoh, tuck in behind me," Poe's command is sharp, "Any further out and they'll see you."

"I'm not sure I can," Paavoh is a young pilot, uncertain still, "There's only thirty meters of clearance and if—"

"We discussed this, kid. Thirty meters is more than enough. Drop in behind me. Now!"

Ben interrupts. "Sight along Dameron's exhaust pipe, aiming your nose right for the center. And reset your proximity sensor to trigger at five meters. Your wings will be out of his way."

"Good advice," Poe adds, after a beat. "Do as he says."

A tense minute passes before Paavoh's relieved sigh gusts over the radio. Ben spares a glance to see the boy, thin-lipped and focused, riding right on Poe's tail. The rest of Hammer Group floats in the gravitational currents, hiding in the moon's shadow as the rest of the fleet arrives. Once all team leaders have checked in, Poe starts his final briefing.

"All right, one last time. Hammer, we smash the fleet and separate the destroyers from the flagship. Viper, you—"

"Uh, Poe?" Jessika's voice breaks through, "Has anyone noticed the fleet isn't where they're supposed to be? They're just...floating."

A glance at the radar screen confirms her reading. The fleet is drifting dangerously close to the crushing gravity well between the system's two enormous stars, where no sensible pilot would ever be caught, chiefly because _being_ caught there would be to be caught dead.

"Something's wrong," Ben murmurs, "Even Hux isn't this stupid."

"All right people, I see it too," Poe says, "but whatever is going on, we stick to the plan. For all we know this could be a trap."

"You mean more of a trap?" Ben scoffs, "If we follow the plan, we could end up pushing the fleet into a stellar compacter, and I don't have to tell you how much that will kill everyone aboard."

"Ren, you're under _my_ command," he can hear the frown on Poe's face, "Don't make me keep you behind."

His hands grip the controls and the ship responds under his hands. It will take him no time at all to blast the bridge and cut the head off the serpent, leaving the fleet to flounder while he extracts Rey. He doesn't need them. He doesn't need any of them. And no chain of command is strong enough to keep him from rescuing Rey.

Yet even as he starts pulling away, a quiet voice inside speaks up. He could do exactly as he planned. Leave his comrades to their own devices and hope he had the ability to rescue Rey on his own. And if he did, what then? He would have betrayed the Resistance, let them down. Let his mother down. Again.

If he did this, what would his future be? Would the Resistance welcome him back afterwards? Would they allow Rey to return?

Why did he care? He and Rey could make a life anywhere; they didn't _need_ anyone else. Ben swallowed. They didn't _need_... _he_ didn't need...

No. He didn't. But he _wanted._

His fingers loosened. His ship, so eager to leap forward, settled again.

"What we need is more information," Poe says, exercising more restraint than Ben thought him capable of by not gloating over his submission. "Until we get that, I'm not risking any of our lives. Jessika, can you slice me some data? Can anyone hack their comms?"

More information. He closed his eyes, reaching out into emptiness, searching for a connection. Searching for Rey.

Where she had been within him was nothing but a void, a hollowed space with sharp, defined edges that cut him when he breathed. Her absence from within him had once driven him to the point of madness, a sign of her absolute rejection of who he was and what he offered. Yet now, her loss was even more painful, for he knew it was not her doing. She would still be at home inside him if Hux hadn't taken her away.

Ben had avoided delving into the emptiness inside. It reminded him of too many things, of years of his secret self being worn away so his parents—and later, Snoke—could fill him with their own expectations. But if Rey is gone, he will have to fill himself up with something other than her. He cannot fear himself, his loneliness, any longer.

He looks inside, and accepts that he is broken, and alone, and lonely. And from a place without need, without grasping greed to _have_ , he reaches out again.

And Rey reaches back.


	43. XLIII

**XLIII**

A golden feeling courses through him, liquid in his veins, lighting up each nerve ending. It's not pleasure, not contentment, not ecstasy, not joy...it's all these things and a thousand more. It's a perfect homecoming. A warm smile on a mother's face. A father's hand on his head. It's resurrection after death. Light without hint of shadow.

It's Rey.

 _You're alive_ , his lips are dry and the words emerge soundless, _you're alive._

 _Yes,_ yes! _I knew Hux was lying when he said you were dead_. Her joy is artless in its simplicity. _But I'm a little busy right now._

 _The fleet's adrift. Your doing?_

 _Of course. But now I'm trapped_ , over the Bond, he hears the impact and feels the heat of blaster fire, _and I don't know how long I can last. You've got five minutes, maybe less. Attack_ now _, before—_

Her focus splinters, dividing between him and a dozen threats. There's a broken-off grunt and a blister of pain at the locus of her shoulder that ripples across space to impact him too. Then she vanishes, her warm presence a faint imprint in his heart.

He has no time. Firing up his engine till it roars, Ben pulls out of formation and leaps out from behind the moon, gunning it towards the fleet.

"Ren!" Poe barks, "What the hell are you doing? You've just—our cover's blown! Hammer Group, move out!"

They pursue him but he has the advantage. Even if they could restrain his Silencer, they'd never catch him in time. He has to act, and act _now._ No time for a committee.

"Damn it, Ren,"he hears a click as Poe switches from the open line to a private channel, "you're going to get yourself and all of us killed! I just said we needed more information! You're going to get _Rey_ killed, if she's not dead al—"

"She's alive," Ben snaps, "but every second we wait might change that. So either fall in with me or stay out of my way."

"Fine, fine! But you're running straight into their guns; you can't save Rey if you're in a million pieces."

"You want information?" he snarls, leaning forward on his controls like his ship isn't already groaning to meet his expectations, "Rey's taken the bridge. She's the one who risked her life to scuttle the fleet. And now she's pinned down, injured," his shoulder aches down to the bone; if she has any functionality left at all it would be a miracle, "and if she dies, I'll..." he stops, threats dying on his tongue. Giving voice to such ugliness feels wrong.

He swallows. "Help me, Dameron. Help her. She needs us. _Now_."

After a beat of silence, Poe huffs a sigh and says, "That's all you had to say. Do you have a plan?"

Planning has never been one of Ben's strong suits, and he can admit that to himself...but not to Dameron. "Yes."

"Then you're in charge," Poe says, clicking them back to the group channel, "Hammer Group, change of plans. Ren is point man now; we'll be following his lead. So," he finishes, grim, "listen up."

Poe's team is too disciplined to murmur, but there's a bleak silence on the line that speaks volumes of their confusion and distrust. Moreover, Ben feels those feelings oozing out of their unguarded minds, thick as tar and so dark they swallow starlight.

Once, those feelings would have made him feel dominant, powerful. Now, they make him feel ashamed and small, like a bully who knows he commands respect only through fear. How long will it take for people other than Rey and his mother to feel anything positive about him? So far, he thinks Poe's begrudging trust is the best he's gotten.

All this can wait.

"We're going to hit the bridge. As hard as we can. With our combined forces we will have enough firepower to penetrate the shields and the hull."

Silence again, incredulous this time. "They'll pick us off like flies off a water bison," a voice he doesn't recognize pipes up, "It's suicide."

"Trust me, there isn't anyone on the bridge in a position to mount a defense right now. We have to strike now before that has a chance to change."

"Ren," Poe mutters into his ear, an aside on a private channel, "That will kill her."

"It won't," he replies, heart in his throat, "It didn't kill my mother."

"Your mother's been a practicing Force user for decades."

Ben knows it. He knows it's a risk, a terrible one, but he can't think of anything else. If he goes for the rest of the fleet, Hux has more impetus to regain bridge control. If they attack anything other than the jugular, the Order will have time to slaughter Rey to keep themselves from bleeding out.

He swallows again, throat working hard. "Rey's strong. I'll tell her what to do."

"If she dies..."

"If she dies, I'll stand for your blaster," Ben doesn't hesitate. What would his life be without her, anyway? Better to let Poe kill him. He'd deserve it.

"Good," the word rings hollow, as both of them know Ben's death would be no solace, coming at the expense of Rey's, "You heard me, people!" Poe barks, "we're following his lead. As soon as we close, start hitting the bridge with everything you've got. We're cutting the head off the snake."

* * *

Rey's shoulder aches, a hot, sweaty grind of torn muscle against bruised bone. Her arm hangs loose from it, hand stuck into her belt so it doesn't swing wildly each time she moves. In a way, the pain has helped clear her mind; there's not much room left for fear or indecision when pain overrides everything but the immediacy of her screaming nerves.

Not that there's much she can do. A rat in a maze has more choices than she does.

For the third time, Rey sets her good shoulder against a bank of processors and tries to shift it. If she can swing it at an angle, it will block off one approach between the tactical station and and comms. But the thing is a monolith; all her strength can't budge it a millimeter.

All her strength...she pauses, panting, ducking as a hail of fire nearly singes off her hair. But that's not true, is it? What are her muscles, what is her _body_ , when compared to its use as a conduit for the Force? She's always used it before, even as a scavenger girl, making incredible leaps across shattered decks of fallen Star Destroyers. How else could she have climbed so high, jumped so far, run so hard, flown without so much as a hint of fear?

Why can't she reach it _now_?

 _I'm scared_ , she thinks, crouched so her chin touches her knees, shaking as agony tears through her, _and I'm hurt. And still drugged. I can't do this. I_ can't _save myself; I_ can't _help_ Ben _._

 _You can_ , a voice tells her. It's not Ben's voice, not Luke's, not Leia's...not anyone's she recognizes. But she knows it all the same. It's the voice she always imagined when she dreamed of her mother. It's the voice she consoled herself with in moments of absolute hopeless loneliness, when the weight of the empty galaxy in the stars above her head on Jakku seemed heavy enough to crush her.

It's kind, wry, ancient, worn, and vibrantly _alive_.

It's the Force.

 _I am in you_ , it tells her. _I have always been in you. Reach out, and I am there._

Rey reaches, letting power swell into her lungs as she breathes and move through her on the exhale. As she does, the processor bank slides neatly across the floor, precisely where she wants it, slamming into place with solid finality. There's a stunned hush from the soldiers watching on, seeing the enormous equipment moving of its own volition, and Rey hears more than one blaster hitting the floor, dropped from nervous fingers.

She sighs, breathing out a silent: _thank you_.

"General?" a voice wavers.

"A—after her!" Rey can _hear_ spittle flying from his lips, "Don't fear her witchcraft! Even a Jedi could not stop all of you!"

It takes the soldiers a moment to work up their courage, but soon enough, a sheet of blaster fire slams into the processor, melting its solid edges into an obsidian waterfall of liquid metal. Soon enough, the machine super-heats, making the air around it nearly unbreathable. Rey coughs, shielding her mouth with her hands. It's futile. She can feel her lungs scorching with each breath.

She reaches for the Force again, imagining it expanding like a bubble around her, cool and blue. And just like that, the air chills and relieved sweat drips down her face. Holding the bubble, though, is another story. Unlike her other efforts with the Force, this one is a constant meditation; the instant her focus wavers, heat breaks through.

So Rey sits, pushing out with the Force, breathing shakily and hoping she can hold out. The longer she does, the more time she gives the Resistance. The more time she gives Ben.

The thought of him is a balm, but one that irritates as much as it soothes. If she could have anything, anything at all in the whole galaxy, it would be the sight of him again. Feeling him and then losing that sensation is more painful than her shoulder, more agonizing than her loneliness.

But when the bridge explodes, sucking her and everything around her into the vacuum of space, even the thought of Ben can't keep her warm. Still, he is the last thing she sees before the tears in her eyes crust over into a film of ice.


	44. XLIV

**XLIV**

Too fast, too fast. It's all happening too fast.

Bodies float into space on a current of decompressed air, pirouetting slowly to the tune of their own inertia, dying by inches as their heat leeches into the cosmos. Some spasm furiously before slowly going still. Others curl inward in an unconscious effort to safeguard the dying light of their mortality. The sight is beautiful and grotesque.

Ben's heart is as cold and still as any of the bodies. It happened too soon. Did Rey know, even intuitively, what to do? Or was she as surprised as he, shock her only emotion as she was flung from hot, bloody warmth into icy death?

He noses his ship among the corpses, searching each one's face as he floats by. Expressions of terror are etched on every one, frozen forever. No peace for these souls as they became one with the Force. A flash of copper catches his eye as Hux, eyes wide, mouth twisted, rolls towards his port foil. Ben shudders. If he's given this kind of death to Rey—

He sees her. Her hair is loose, frozen in a stiff waterfall where it floats out from her head. Her eyes sparkle under half-closed lids, skin frosted and shining as if she's encased in crystal. Even her hair seems white in the cold glow of the ship's running lights. The only spot of color on her is rusted red, where blood stains the dark wool of her uniform.

"Rey," he whispers, forgetting the listening troops who can hear the uncertain wobble in his voice, "Rey?"

"Is she alive?" Poe's own voice is none too steady.

"I don't know," his deadened heart leaps back to life so quickly each beat feels like a knife in his chest. With a fresh rush of blood comes a new surge of power. And certainty.

As he begins to decompress the cabin, an alarm shrieks, its terrified cry echoing over the comms' channel. He breathes, centering himself, reaching for the Force, for its protection. He doesn't want, or need, its protection for himself. All that matters is—

 _Save her_ , is his prayer. _If it costs my life, save her._

He clicks the final switch and the hatch, groaning through its own reluctance to what it deems suicide, raises up.

Silence fills his ears like oceanic pressure closing above his head, like being plunged beneath the waves of a bottomless sea. He floats into the void, space tearing at his defenses with implacable claws, snarling for his life every second he denies it its due by living.

It takes him five seconds to reach Rey. Ten times, he faces the might of the galaxy trying to end him, and survives nonetheless. Yet he is not afraid, not once. He cannot be. Fear would tear him from the Force. With Rey unyielding in his arms, he closes the hatch of his Silencer again, turning the heat as high as it will go in the vain hope it will reanimate the pale marble of her skin.

She radiates cold, her skin sticking to his as he moves his hand to brush her softening hair out of her eyes. His fingers leave no imprint on her. Nor do his lips, when he touches them to her forehead. Pulling back, he searches her face for any sign of life, and finds nothing.

* * *

Grief is a funny thing. One would think, having known so much of it in his life, that he'd be used to its familiar agony. But he isn't. It dissolves inside him, acid in his blood, eating away at everything that keeps him together.

Ben sits in the infirmary, watching Rey float in a bacta tank, and has no sensation of himself as a physical entity. His legs are numb, as if his spine's been severed with clinical efficiency. His fingers have no grip. The only proof he feels of his breathing is the fact that he's still conscious. The only proof he has of sight is the image of her hand, curled into a loose fist. He saw those fingers move—moments ago, minutes ago, hours ago—and hasn't allowed himself to blink since.

At least in this they are joined. Rey's brain activity is so faint she must have no concept of herself as being alive either. They are both hovering in limbo, somewhere between life and death, awake and asleep, with no one to either pull them back or wake them from this nightmare.

"Ren?"

He doesn't turn. To turn would be to risk missing another sign, however faint, from Rey.

Dameron sits heavily by his side, knees wide, leaning forward on his elbows. "Talked to the doctors. They say it could be hours yet, before she shows any sign. It took your mother days to wake. I know you want to wait, but...when was the last time you had something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry," his voice grates like a millstone.

He can't tell what expression Poe makes when he turns to look at him. "You've gotta eat something. Maybe _you_ didn't feel it, but you were in _space_ for over thirty seconds. That had to do something to you, even being a Jedi."

"I'm no Jedi."

"Whatever you say. What does a not-quite-Jedi eat, anyway?"

He turns, slow as a glacier. "Nothing."

Poe smiles. "Too bad. Your mom sent me down here to see if you were okay. You know she spent an hour with you earlier? Says you never said a word."

"I don't remember."

"Not surprising. Anyway, she sent me down here to annoy you back to life. I guess it worked."

He can't smile. He doesn't remember how. But if he could, he might— _might—_ be tempted.

"I guess it did," he takes a moment to take in Poe, still dressed in grease-spotted flight fatigues. "I don't see any food."

"Oh. Well, now that you're talking again, I can ask the galley to send something down for us. Any preferences?"

"No."

"Okay, murder-bot," he grumbles, "You know, if you're going to be part of our team, you might want to try sharing. Just a little. It won't make anybody like you, I promise. It'll just help us see you as a person. Once in a while, anyway."

Processing words is hard, much less the derisive tone that drips from them. "I," he breathes, "I don't have any preferences. In the Order...there wasn't room for them. The last food I remember enjoying was the spice cookies my mother kept in her office."

Poe's eyebrows twitch. "She still keeps a box stashed away somewhere. I'll loot some for us."

He leaves before Ben can summon a word of thanks. He mutters it into Poe's wake anyway.

It occurs to him suddenly that he _is_ hungry. Starving, even. And that he aches, aches down to his fingertips, as though each one of his blood vessels has swollen to bursting and contracted again in an instant. Kriffing _hell_ , he hurts. There's a pattern of bruises across his forearms so extensive it makes him look piebald. Did the doctors look at him? Or did he shove them towards Rey, determined that they see to her injuries first?

The latter seems most likely.

He looks at Rey. Would he betray her by eating, by icing his wounds, by taking a nap? It feels disloyal, traitorous. How can he be at ease until he knows she's out of danger? How is his comfort more important than her life?

Still, as he considers the smooth line of her forehead and the tiny curl of her lips, he can almost hear her saying:

 _No, you idiot. I'm not dead. What good would your stupid ritual suicide do me?_

He remembers now how to smile, though it's a fragile thing.

"That's unnerving," a voice startles him. Flinching is agonizing, and his groan twists his entire face.

FN-2187's smile is pure schadenfreude _._ But it fades, quickly. The two men regard each other over a vast gulf, but Ben's stomach lurches as he realizes the word he always hurled at Finn— _traitor—_ applies to him far more than the former stormtrooper. They're on the same side now, but Finn has always been loyal to it. And to Rey.

"You saved her life," Finn speaks first, stepping forward, "You risked your own to do it."

"My life means nothing without her," Ben shrugs, "The risk was nothing."

"Still. It was brave."

Ben doesn't know what to say. Pleasantries were never his strong suit to begin with, but saying 'thank you' seems like a bad fit.

Finn takes his own cue. "You know, I didn't believe it at first."

"Believe what?"

"That you loved her. I didn't think you had it in you. I guess I was wrong." Finn's expression is bland, his eyes flinty.

"Are you upset? To be wrong?"

"A little. I _really_ wanted to throw you out an airlock," he catches himself, scoffing, "but I guess you can survive that kind of thing, can't you? But no. You helped us kill Hux, cripple the First Order. It's anyone's guess when they're going to be able to mount any kind of retaliatory strike. It'd be ungrateful to still want you dead."

"And," Ben swallows, "And Rey? You two were...close."

It's a question, no matter how neutral he tries to keep his tone.

"Rey helped set me free. She saved my life," Finn rests his hand against Rey's, through the thick glass that separates them. "I love her. I always will."

 _Not_ what he wants to hear. Once, he would have burned the heart out of any man who dared say that in his presence. Now, all Ben feels is resignation. Of course Finn loves her. Of course Rey loves him too. They are both so good, with pure light at the heart of them. They deserve each other.

 _Something_ must show on his face, because Finn rushes on, snatching his hand back from the glass as though it's burned his fingers.

"I mean, I don't _love_ her, love her. Not like that. She's my best friend, but I'm with Rose now."

"Oh," this is all a little much; Ben doesn't know whether to be happy, confused, or still resigned. "Oh. That's good."

"I guess so. For both of us," Finn's nod encompasses both Ben and Rey. "So, I'm going to try to be friends with you. For her sake. If you don't want that, fine. But I've got a peace offering. Poe's got lunch coming, but he told me to bring these down for you."

From his pocket, he pulls out a tin, the raised cover of which bears a design Ben remembers from his earliest days. He used to lie on the couch in his mother's office, tracing that design of the fruit tree's spreading branches, and wait for Leia to return.

Something so small, so insignificant, shouldn't make his eyes burn with unshed tears. "Spice cookies," he manages, taking the tin with shaking fingers. The metal is heavy and cold in his hands, absolutely real.

"Thank you."


	45. XLV

**XLV**

Rey wonders, as she wakes, if she was ever a complete person or if she'd always been a plucked, raw chicken, butchered and freeze-dried for long-haul shipping. Her skin shivers, overly sensitive, as though the epidermis has been peeled away in one thin skin, leaving her vulnerable to every breath of wind. Not that there is any wind to speak of. The air she breathes is recycled, stale, tasting of metal, plastic, and curdled anesthetic, and it wafts over her skin in regular drafts. It's sour and disgusting.

She's alive, then. Good to know. Though the way she feels right now, she almost wishes she weren't.

A sliver of light knifes into her eyes, startling defensive tears to prickle at her lashes. She groans and tries to roll over, but her body won't cooperate. There are cords holding her down, first of all. Cords? Why would anyone be holding her?

The immediate past slams back into her mind, and Rey jerks against her bonds, too weak to break a single strand. But she _has_ to get out, she _can't_ let Hux hold her; it can't have all been for nothing!

"Oh, thank goodness! She's—you're awake! Rey, can you hear me? It's Rose!"

"Rose?" Rey croaks, her throat as bloody and sore as the rest of her. What happened? She doesn't remember much after...after...

Oh. Right. After being blown into space. That explains a lot.

"Yes!" Rose's voice is full of bubbly energy, and Rey can just imagine her standing there, bouncing from one foot to the other, "Oh, thank the Force! No one thought you'd wake up so soon."

"How long?"

"Three days. It's felt like forever."

"And," she pauses, steeling herself against the worst, "Is everyone okay?"

"Yes," there's warm pressure on her hand as Rose squeezes it, "everyone's fine. He—Ben, I mean—he didn't leave the medbay for over two days. Then he collapsed and we sort of dragged him out. Sorry we couldn't carry him, but he is _heavy_. Poe calls him a murder-bot—he's joking, I think—but it really does feel like he's made of durasteel."

She wants to laugh. The thought of Rose, Poe, and Finn hauling Ben down the hall like a hibernating saber-bear is hilarious.

"You'd think that after rescuing you from _space_ he'd be a bit more careful. But no. He had to be unconscious before he let a doctor anywhere near him."

"He rescued me?"

"Of course. Nobody else would have been able to do it."

The tears pooling in Rey's eyes finally overflow, sliding down her cheeks in a scalding sheet. She's unthawing, coming alive by inches, and every inch _hurts_. But she wouldn't trade it for anything. Not anything.

"Do you want me to get him?"

"Yes," her head aches as she nods, but she doesn't feel the pain. "Please."

"Okay, just give me a minute. If he's still asleep, do you want me to wake him up?"

She shouldn't say yes. But she smiles.

"Drag him here by his ankles if you have to."

Rose laughs. "As if I could move that slab all by myself. But I promise, I'll draft as much help as I need. Just hang tight; I'm gonna send a doctor in for you. Maybe you can even sit up today!"

Her enthusiasm is a hot bath. Rey can't sit up, can't possibly, but she _does_ open her eyes. Rose's heart-shaped face blooms, cheeks flushed and brilliant. More tears come; no one has _ever_ looked so artlessly happy to see Rey, not ever in her life.

"You're my best friend," she says, simply, "You know that, right?"

"Oh," Rose sighs, "I'm so glad you're all right. Just lie still; I'll be right back."

She leaves in a bustling flutter, to be replaced moments later by an efficient doctor Rey doesn't recognize, who puts her through her paces as precisely as a show dog. Her joints squeal as he bends her arm, fingers, and elbows. Her skin goes blotchy red with every touch. And her vision keeps sliding in and out of focus.

She feels _great_.

"Well," the doctor concludes at last, "for a woman who spent over a minute in the vacuum of space, you're doing well. As far as I can tell, anyway. Just listen to your body, and don't do more than it tells you you can."

"Thanks, doctor," she's actually sitting up now, though propped on a cloudbank of pillows, and can turn her head slowly without assistance.

"Thank the Force. It's the only reason you're alive."

Rey leans back and contemplates the ceiling, remembering. It _was_ the Force that saved her; of course it was. She remembers that beautiful voice manifesting to her like the voice of a cosmic mother, the friend who had always been inside her. She didn't make the Force save her; she wouldn't even have known how. It saved her because that was its will.

Submitting to something greater than herself isn't something that Rey has ever enjoyed. She submitted to Unkar Plutt, to the unfair life he foisted on her and every other orphaned soul like her. She submitted to the myth of her parents, that they would return for her, remaining on Jakku even as it ground her to dust. Submission has never brought her anything but disappointment, grief, and pain.

But now, she is willing to let herself go. She trusted the Force, and it was there for her. They are composed of the same celestial matter; she is one with the Force and the Force is with her.

The door slides open. The figure standing there, blocking all the light, is almost featureless to her weak eyes. It's more like a monolith than a man—Rose wasn't all wrong when she called him a 'slab'—but Rey doesn't need her eyes to see him. To her, he's a beacon through the Force, shining brighter than any sun.

"Hi," she murmurs.

He flows forward, the door sliding shut behind him. The world is quiet.

"Hi," his hands raise, then fall again, as if he doesn't feel himself worthy of touching her. He folds them instead, the gesture hunching his shoulders inward, a protective posture guarding his heart.

"It's all right," her fingers creep across the covers to reach for him, "You won't hurt me."

"The doctors said," he swallows, "They said you'd be fragile. I shouldn't."

"I am," her voice wobbles, "But I need you to—would you hold me?"

Even with her permission, he's reluctant. When her hand reaches his, he barely curls his fingers around hers. Rey has to lift it, has to bring him to her, has to lean forward to rest her heavy head in the crook of his shoulder. He's so hot he burns away any lingering chill, down to her marrow. Her skin tingles, healed and whole.

His arms close around her, and, despite his hesitation, a flow of pure joy surges through her, half hers and half his. The sensation brings her right back to the start of their relationship, open and vulnerable to each other, naked and honest in the light of knowing and being known. Brought together by—and in—the Force.

She breathes out, breathes in. Out, and again. His arms tighten around her; his tears fall into the loose mass of her hair. She's crying too, salt from her tears mingling with the salt of his skin.

"I love you," it's a voice from deep inside of him, buried by years of abuse, of shame, of fear, of unutterable darkness. "I love you."

"I love you," is all she can say. There's no greater sentiment, no higher feeling, no other response he deserves. "I love you so much."

Rey tries to shift her legs so he can slide onto the bed beside her, groaning as her stiff body refuses to cooperate. Ben contemplates her for an instant and scoops her up, supporting her until she lies lengthwise against him, head resting on his chest.

She sighs, eyes falling shut. "I love listening to your heartbeat."

It quickens under her ear. "Why?"

"It's proof that you're alive."

"We have needed proof lately, haven't we?"

Rey nestles closer. "I've never been so scared, not knowing whether Hux had killed you or not. He _is_ dead, isn't he?"

"Yes. He was blown into space with the rest of you."

"Oh. Oh, well. I kind of wanted to do it myself."

"You and me both," he grumbles, "but at least he's dead. It's probably for the best that neither of us killed him."

"Hmm," she agrees. "And the rest of the Order?"

"It's recovering. Abaloe seems to have seized the reins for now, but we managed to slice enough confidential information from the rest of the fleet that we're staying ahead of them. Cracked more than a few of their top-secret encryption codes. But do we have to discuss this now?"

"I guess not," she laughs, "After all, one day the war will be over and then what will we have to talk about?"

"We'll have to learn how to..." he stops to consider, curling the word over on his tongue, " _chat_."

"Ooh," she shudders, exaggerated and dramatic, "or practice _small talk_."

"I'm bored already."

"You're bored of me?" she can't twist her neck to stick out her tongue at him, but does it anyway, "Already?"

He can't joke, not about that. "Never."

"Never?"

"Not until the stars burn out."

"That's," she runs out of air, "I always knew you were a poet, underneath it all."

He shifts, embarrassed. "I used to love it. I'd copy lines down to practice my calligraphy."

"Calligraphy? Like, with a pen? On paper?"

"I know it's silly, but I liked it. I felt like it connected me to the past, back when the words were written."

"I love that," she imagines floppy-haired baby Ben bent over a sheet of paper—she's never actually seen a piece of it outside of pictures—pen gripped in one fist, earnestly copying down beautiful words from a glowing screen. Translating from the virtual to the physical, as if he could feel the words and absorb the truth of them through the act of writing. It reminds her of something.

"When I was a kid, I used to fix power converters. They were worthless to trade, but...I liked figuring them out. Like solving a puzzle. It made me feel like there was something else in my life that was worthwhile. That I could create something rather than just tear apart and disassemble."

"You were always worthwhile," he says, kissing her forehead.

"You were too," she replies, tangling her fingers with his. "I guess we both get to realize that now, don't we?"

He's silent. But Rey can feel him thinking, feel his knee-jerk denial turn slowly from dejection to hope.

"I suppose we do."

* * *

Note: Thank you all so much for following me—and Rey and Ben—on this journey! After seeing TLJ I saw the characters as two broken people learning to put themselves together in the face of a galaxy that wanted to see each of them in a particular light. I wanted to tell the story of them defying these odds both together and separately, and I hope I've done that.

I want you all to know that I have valued each and every comment you've left, and I hope those of you who have yet to share your thoughts with me will do that. Please know that if it weren't for the ongoing support of my readers that this story may never have been completed.

I guess now there's nothing more to do but wait with baited breath for the _actual_ conclusion of Rey and Ben's story! Let's hope that it'll be as satisfying as anything fandom can give us!


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